"Tiens!" said Madame Bouïsse (Madame Bouïsse was the wife of the concierge). "V'la! here is M'sieur Arbuthnot."
The man touched his cap, and handed me a letter.
"I was told to deliver it into no hands but those of M'sieur himself," said he.
The address was in Dalrymple's writing. I tore the envelope open. It contained only a card, on the back of which, scrawled hastily in pencil, were the following words:
"To have said good-bye would have made our parting none the lighter. By the time you decipher this hieroglyphic I shall be some miles on my way: Address Hôtel de Russie, Berlin. Adieu, Damon; God bless you. O.D."
"How long is it since this letter was given to you?" said I, without taking my eyes from the card.
The commissionnaire made no reply. I repeated the question, looked up impatiently, and found that the man was already gone.