"No, no," she had answered; "it is not that. You are very kind, Henri."
He had then made so bold as to suggest that a messenger be sent out to find monsieur.
"By all means," she had answered. "I will give you a note to take to him."
She had sat down and written the note and Henri had dispatched it immediately. But, also immediately, madame and her maid had left.
"I beg monsieur to believe that if there is anything--"
Monte waved the man aside, went to the telephone, and rang up the Hôtel d'Angleterre.
"I wish to know if a Madame Covington has recently arrived."
"Look here," said Monte sharply. "Make sure of that. She must have reached there within fifteen minutes."
"We have had no arrivals here within that time except a Mademoiselle Stockton and her maid."
"Eh?" snapped Monte. "Repeat that again."
"Mademoiselle Stockton," the clerk obeyed.
"She signed the register with that name?"
"You found her?" inquired Henri solicitously.
"Yes," nodded Monte, and went out into the night again.
There was nothing he could do--absolutely nothing. She had given her orders, and they must be obeyed. He returned to the Quai Massena, to the shore of the sea; but he walked nervously now, in a world that, as far as he was concerned, was starless and colorless. He had thought at first, naturally enough, that Hamilton was in some way concerned; but he dismissed that now as wholly unplausible. Instead of running away, in that case, she would have sent for him. It was decidedly more likely that this was some strange whimsy springing from within herself.
In looking back at the last few days, he recalled now that upon several occasions she had acted in a way not quite like herself. Last night, for instance, she had been disturbed. Again, it was most unusual for her not to dine with him. He had accepted her excuse that she was tired; but now he blamed himself for not having seen through so artificial an excuse, for not having detected that something else was troubling her.
She had run away as if in fear. She had not dared even to talk over with him the cause for her uneasiness. And he--blind fool that he was--had not detected anything unusual. He had gone off mooning, leaving her to fight her own fight. He had been so confoundedly self-satisfied and content because she was here with him, where heretofore he had always been alone, that he had gone stony blind to her comfort. That was the crude fact.