"No, Mr. Ambrose, she went straight on by land. She's in France, most likely Paris—for certain. Large cities are generally chosen by people who want to hide securely; every child knows that."
"Yes, yes," muttered Austin Ambrose, "she is in Paris."
He rose and took out his pocketbook.
"I am much obliged to you, Snowdon. The matter can rest here now. I wanted to be certain of the young lady's existence, and for the rest, well, I dare say I can find her if I should require her, which at present I do not. There is the sum I promised you, and there is a bonus. You will find it in your interest to deserve my confidence; and now make yourself scarce as quickly and quietly as possible."
"If you will kindly open that window, sir," said the detective, quietly, "I need not disturb any of the servants. I can find my way across the park," and with a respectful farewell he passed out.
Austin Ambrose stood and mused, his sharp brain turning the situation this way and that. Then he looked up and smiled at his own face reflected in the mirror over the mantel.
An hour afterward he re-entered the drawing-room, with his usual placid smile, and all his plans made.
Lying on the couch was the countess. Her fingers were picking restlessly at the edge of the Indian shawl, a habit she had, and as she looked up he saw her face was pale and troubled.
He bent over the head of the couch, murmuring softly: "Not in bed yet? You ladies are as dissipated as we men."
"Yes, this is dreadful dissipation, is it not?" she retorted, ironically.