Then, with another feeble little attempt at a smile, he wondered if a cutlet and a glass of claret would put a little strength into him.
Clive, with a twinge of remorse, recollecting that the old gentleman had had nothing in the way of food since his arrival in the morning, at once ordered the much-needed refreshment.
He himself, however, at the moment, felt eating to be an impossibility. The heat was intense; a thunderstorm seemed threatening; he felt stifled within four walls. There was yet an hour to be got through before he kept his appointment at the Italian café with the little organ-boy. He thought he would take a turn in the Champs Élysées and see if the fresh air would clear his brain and put some fresh ideas into it.
Ideas, however, are among the many things for which the demand does not create the supply. Clive wandered along the sultry, dusty road in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne, his brain meantime, instead of grinding out fresh ideas, working incessantly at the old treadmill of anxieties, perplexities, and distresses which for him from the very first had gathered round Ida’s disappearance.
Half past five sounded from a clock-tower, and he turned his steps towards the street of many restaurants, hoping to find his little black-eyed friend awaiting him there.
He found the usual number of people assembled in the café round the marble tables, eating their ices or drinking their chocolate; but never a sign of the little organ-grinder.
He questioned the waiter who had attended to him on the previous day as to whether he had seen anything of the child, and received a negative in reply.
Then he was himself addressed by a thin, wiry little man, whom he had noted as he had entered the café, seated in a corner, to all appearance absorbed in the perusal of his Figaro.
Clive guessed in a moment that this individual was the detective whom the Prefect of Police had promised should be in attendance at the café.
They had a little talk together.
The detective expressed his conviction that they were both on a lost errand. He was convinced that the boy would not make his appearance; although when pressed by Clive to do so, he declined to give the reasons for, his conviction. He stated further that his orders were to remain in or outside the place until it closed at midnight. There was therefore no necessity for “M’sieu” to remain unless he felt so disposed.
Clive, however, did feel so disposed, and he lingered about the restaurant until daylight waned and gas-lamps were lighted.
Then he thought it best to return to his hotel, in case the evening mail might have brought news of any kind, or information that called for immediate action.
On the steps of his hotel he was met by a chance acquaintance, who detained him a few minutes in conversation. This chance acquaintance was a member of the Alpine Club, en route for the Swiss mountains, and was eager to detail to Clive a new line of road that he had mapped out for himself. Clive had but a scanty attention to give him, and shook him off as soon as possible. During the few minutes that they stood talking together, Clive had his attention arrested by a sister of the Salvation Army, who came out of the hotel and passed down the stops close to his elbow.
He caught a glimpse of her face under its black poke-bonnet as she went by. She was a woman of about twenty-five years of age, English not a doubt, with a pale, careworn face, that was nevertheless rendered attractive by its remarkable sweetness of expression.
He gave a passing wonder to the thought what could have brought her, without her colleagues, into so uncongenial a neighbourhood, and then went on to the room where he had left Lord Culvers.
He found it in utter darkness, save for a single candle which burned upon a side-table that they had given up to their writing materials, and a patch of gaslight, which an outside lamp made upon the wall.
It seemed strange. The unlighted lamps could be easily accounted for by the fact that Lord Culvers, fast asleep, reclined in a comfortable easy-chair, with his feet resting on another chair.
But the one candle on the writing-table! It seemed to suggest that someone had entered while Lord Culvers had slept, and had made use of the pen and ink.
Clive crossed the room to the small table, and there found his suspicions confirmed. A pen was in the inkstand, a sheet of notepaper was laid obtrusively athwart the blotting pad. And on this sheet of notepaper was written in ink, not yet dry:
“A poor penitent, lying at the point of death at No. 11, Rue Corot, has a story to tell that may interest Lord Culvers.”
XV
Clive stood staring blankly at the mysterious words.
“A poor penitent!” “A story to tell!” What in Heaven’s name did it mean?
Who could have entered the room while Lord Culvers slept, and have left a message whose full import it seemed impossible to gauge?
For that the story which might “interest Lord Culvers” had reference to their one pressing cause of anxiety, he did not for a moment doubt.
All his wonderings, however, had to be swept on one side unanswered, to make way for the more practical question, What was to be done for the best?
And to this question there seemed but one answer: “Go yourself without a moment’s delay to No. 11, Rue Corot.”
He threw one glance at Lord Culvers as he slept. His face, fitfully lighted by the one candle and the patch of light thrown by the outside gas-lamp, showed painfully worn and aged. It did not need a second glance to convince Clive that to awaken him and explain matters to him would mean
