y."

Zora's delicate nostrils sniffed the faintest perfume of a mystery; but a
moment afterwards the Callenders carried her off to Ledoyen's and
Longchamps and other indubitable actualities in which she forgot things
less tangible. Long afterwards she discovered that the friend was an old
woman, a _marchande des quatre saisons_ who sold vegetables in the Place de
la Republique. He had known her many years, and as she was at the point of
death he comforted her with blood-puddings and flowers and hams and the
ministrations of an indignant physician. But at the time Septimus hid his
Good Samaritanism under a cloud of vagueness.

Then came a period during which Zora lost him altogether. Days passed. She
missed him. Life with the Callenders was a continuous shooting of rapids. A
quiet talk with Septimus was an hour in a backwater, curiously restful. She
began to worry. Had he been run over by an omnibus? Only an ever-recurring
miracle could bring him safely across the streets of a great city. When the
Callenders took her to the Morgue she dreaded to look at the corpses.

"I do wish I knew what has become of him," she said to Turner.

"Why not write to him, ma'am?" Turner suggested.

"I've forgotten the name of his hotel," said Zora, wrinkling her forehead.

The name of the Hotel Quincamboeuf, where he lodged, eluded her memory.

"I do wish I knew," she repeated.

Then she caught an involuntary but illuminating gleam in Turner's eye, and
she bade her look for hairpins. Inwardly she gasped from the shock of
revelation; then she laughed to herself, half amused, half indignant. The
preposterous absurdity of the suggestion! But in her heart she realized
that, in some undefined human fashion, Septimus Dix counted for something
in her life. What had become of him?

At last she found him one morning sitting by a table in the courtyard of
the Grand Hotel, patiently awaiting her descent. By mere chance she was
un-Callendered.

"Why, what--?"

The intended reproval died on her lips as she saw his face. His cheeks were
hollow and white, his eyes sunken The man was ill. His hand burned through
her glove. Feelings warm and new gushed forth.

"Oh, my _dear_ friend, what is the matter?"

"I must go back to England. I came to say good-bye. I've had this from
Wiggleswick."

He handed her an open letter. She waved it away.

"That's of no consequence. Sit down. You're ill. You have a high
temperature. You should be in bed."