But Sylvia was answering him.
“Yes, the woman said that Anna would be very lucky.”
The Comte de Virieu thought for a moment, and then withdrew his eyes from his friend’s face.
“I presume you have already telephoned to the hotel in Paris where you first met Madame Wolsky?”
“Why, it never occurred to me to do that!” cried Sylvia. “What a good idea!”
“Wait,” he said. “I will go and do it for you.”
But five minutes later he came back, shaking his head. “I am sorry to say the people at the Hôtel de l’Horloge know nothing of Madame Wolsky. They have had no news of her since you and she both left the place. I wonder if the Wachners know more of her disappearance than they have told you?”
“What do you mean?” asked Sylvia, very much surprised.
“They’re such odd people,” he said, in a dissatisfied voice. “And you know they were always with your friend. When you were not there, they hardly ever left her for a moment.”
“But I thought I had told you how distressed they are about it? How they waited for her last evening and how she never came? Oh no, the Wachners know nothing,” declared Sylvia confidently.
XVI
There is something very bewildering and distressing in the sudden disappearance or even the absence of a human being to whose affectionate and constant presence one has become accustomed. And as the hours went by, and no letter or message arrived from Anna Wolsky, Sylvia became seriously troubled, and spent much of her time walking to and from the Pension Malfait.
Surely Anna could not have left Paris, still less France, without her luggage? All sorts of dreadful possibilities crowded on Sylvia’s mind; Anna Wolsky might have met with an accident: she might now be lying unidentified in a Paris hospital …
At last she grew so uneasy about her friend that she felt she must do something!
Mine host of the Villa du Lac was kind and sympathetic, but even he could suggest no way of finding out where Anna had gone.
And then Sylvia suddenly bethought herself that there was one thing she could do which she had not done: she could surely go to the police of Lacville and ask them to make inquiries in Paris as to whether there had been an accident of which the victim in any way recalled Anna Wolsky.
To her surprise, M. Polperro shook his head very decidedly.
“Oh no, do not go to the police!” he said in an anxious tone. “No, no, I do not advise you to do that! Heaven knows I would do anything in reason to help you, Madame, to find your friend. But I beg of you not to ask me to go for you to the police!”
Sylvia was very much puzzled. Why should M. Polperro be so unwilling to seek the help of the law in so simple a matter as this?
“I will go myself,” she said.
And just then—they were standing in the hall together—the Comte de Virieu came up.
“What is it you will do yourself, Madame?” he asked, smiling.
Sylvia turned to him eagerly.
“I feel that I should like to speak to the police about Anna Wolsky,” she exclaimed. “It is the first thing one would do in England if a friend suddenly disappeared—in fact, the police are always looking for people who have gone away in a mysterious manner. You see, I can’t help being afraid, Count Paul”—she lowered her voice—“that Anna has met with some dreadful accident. She hasn’t a friend in Paris! Suppose she is lying now in some hospital, unable to make herself understood? I only wish that I had a photograph of Anna that I could take to them.”
“Well, there is a possibility that this may be so. But remember it is even more probable that Madame Wolsky is quite well, and that she will be annoyed at your taking any such step to find her.”
“Yes,” said Sylvia, slowly. “I know that is quite possible. And yet—and yet it is so very unlike Anna not to send me a word of explanation! And then, you know in that letter she left in her room at the Pension Malfait she positively promised to send a telegram about her luggage. Surely it is very strange that she has not done that?”
“Well, if you really wish the police communicated with,” said the Comte de Virieu, “I will go to the police-station here, with pleasure.”
“Why should we not go together?” asked Sylvia, hesitatingly.
“By all means. But think over what we are to say when we get there. If your friend had not left the letter behind her, then, of course it would be our positive duty to communicate with the police. But I cannot help being afraid—” He stopped abruptly.
“Of what are you afraid?” asked Sylvia eagerly.
“I am afraid that Madame Wolsky may be very much offended by your interference in the matter.”
“Oh, no!” cried Sylvia. “Indeed, in that you are quite mistaken! I know Anna would never be offended by anything I could do. She was very fond of me, and so am I of her. But in any case I am willing to risk it. You see”—her voice broke, quivered—“I am really very unhappy about Anna—”
“When would you like to go to the Commissioner of Police?” asked the Count.
“Is there any reason why we should not go now?”
“No. Let us go at once. I only had the feeling that you might hear from her any moment.”
Together they walked up into the little town of Lacville. To each any expedition in which the other took part had become delightful. They were together now more than they had ever been before. No, Count Paul could not be sorry that Sylvia’s friend had left Lacville. He had no wish for her return.
At last they came to a rather mean-looking white house; out of one of the windows hung a tricolour flag.
“Here we are!” he said briefly.
“It doesn’t look a very
