For half an hour she walked about, wondering whether she should telephone Monsieur Lefevre now, or wait until she had made certain that the whole affair was, after all, not a wild goose chase. Suddenly she was seized with a new determination. She went boldly up to the house, and rang the bell.
In a few moments a sleepy-looking maid opened the door, eying Grace with lazy indifference.
"I wish to see Monsieur Durand," the latter said.
"He's out."
"Then I must wait. I am a model. He instructed me to come at eight o'clock, and to wait until he returned."
The girl shrugged her shoulders, and pointed to the stairs. "Top floor front," she grumbled, and turned away.
Grace lost no time in getting up the stairs. To her surprise, the door of the studio, upon which was a card bearing Monsieur Durand's name, was unlocked. She pushed her way boldly in, and looked about. The room was scantily furnished, and contained little besides a couple of modeling stands, several large plaster figures and casts, two chairs, and a couch, evidently used as a bed. At the rear of the room was a closet. She turned to it and threw it open. It contained only an assortment of clothes.
She felt completely baffled. There was no possible place, here, in which the child she was seeking could be hidden. Evidently she had been on the wrong track. And yet—what had the wicker basket contained?
Suddenly she stopped, quivering with excitement. From somewhere in the room—she could not tell where—there came a low sobbing sound, as of a child, crying to itself. It vibrated throughout the room, at one moment close to her ears, the next far off, intangible, like a whispered echo. She stood, listening, every nerve tense with excitement, and still that low sobbing went on, coming from nowhere, evanescent as a dream.
The thing seemed unreal, horrifying. She gazed about helpless. Then she heard the front door of the house suddenly slam, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.