A question was trembling on my tongue; it was whether, in the light of all that had been disclosed to him, the delusion he labored under with respect to Beatrice was now dispelled; but I feared to pain him, and I did not give utterance to the question.
"Do you not think," he said, "that Mr. Dickson has been rather remiss in not giving you the name and address of the agent who traveled, unknown to Mr. Nisbet, from London with him?"
"I wish he had done so," I replied, "for then we could have some conversation with him to-night, which might have been of service to us. The telegram he sent me is a long one, and perhaps I shall have a letter from him in the morning."
This proved to be the case. In it Mr. Dickson acknowledged that it would have been as well if he had given me the name and address of his agent in his telegram; the name was Rivers, his address Hôtel Richmond. He had not heard from Mr. Rivers, he said, but when he did he would communicate to me everything the letter contained of any importance. I went at once to the Hôtel Richmond, which was not more than five minutes' walk from the Hôtel de Bade, and inquired for Mr. Rivers, and I took Ronald with me as interpreter, leaving Bob to look after Barbara.
"M. Rivers?" said the waiter, "but he has departed."
"When?"
"This morning early. He slept but one night."
"Do you know where he has gone?"
"No, I do not know; I will ask the manager."
The manager did not know. After his coffee and roll M. Rivers had paid his bill and given up his room. Did he leave in a cab? No, he left on foot, carrying his bag with him. Perhaps he went to a railway station? Ah, it was possible. Perhaps he was still in Paris. Ah, it was possible. If M. Rivers returned to the hotel, would the manager give him my card with a few words in pencil on it, asking him to come immediately to the Hôtel de Bade? M. Rivers should have the card, yes, with much pleasure. And so, good-morning.