“I do not know what became of the man of mystery, Mr. Noname, but it seems that he must have perished in the East End fire, at which Brattle was injured.”
“He was a queer creature.”
“And it was remarkable that he took such an interest in me. I did not understand it then, and I do not understand it now. He claimed that he was my guardian spirit—my good genius.”
“He talked like a lunatic sometimes.”
“And yet to him I owe so much! But for him, I might never have found Elsie when Brattle carried her off. He led me straight to her, and then he vanished. Before that, when I was in danger, he appeared, and warned me; since then, no matter what danger has menaced me, he has not appeared, so I fear he perished in the fire.”
“Well, it’s not likely you will need to be warned in Paris, for I fancy our visit here will pass off quietly, with nothing at all in the way of dangerous adventure.”
After awhile, they rose, and started to stroll back to the hotel. They passed out of the Luxembourg to the Boulevard, but had not walked far before a closed carriage drew close to the curbing. From behind the curtained window a black-gloved hand reached out, and beckoned, while a voice called:
“Frank Merriwell!”
Merry started at the sound of that voice. It seemed to stir slumbering memories in his heart, and it caused a strange sensation to pass over him. The hand disappeared, reappeared, held a folded paper toward Frank. Again the voice spoke his name. Merry stepped toward the cab, and took the bit of paper. Then he reached to draw the curtain, but the driver whipped up his horses, and the cab rolled away.
He unfolded the paper, and read: