“Where from?”
“From a Pensionnat outside the Porte de Scharbeck, I think, sir; at least, her maid described it as in that direction.”
“And what is she called,—Mademoiselle Violette, or Virginie, or Ida, or what is it, eh?” asked he, jocularly.
“Mademoiselle, sir,—only Mademoiselle,—the Captain's daughter!”
“His daughter!” repeated he, in increased wonderment, to himself. “Can this be possible?”
“There is no doubt of it, sir. The lady of the Pensionnat brought her here last night in her own carriage, and I heard her, as she entered the salon, say, 'Now, Mademoiselle, that I have placed you in the hands of your father—' and then the door closed.”
“I never knew he had a daughter,” muttered Beecher to himself. “Which is my room?”
“We have prepared this one for you, but to-morrow you shall have a more comfortable one, with a look-out over the lower town.”
“Put me somewhere where I sha'n't hear that confounded piano, I beg of you. Who is it rattles away that fashion?”
“Mademoiselle, sir.”