As the vehicle sped along in the direction of the High Street, Browne unfolded and glanced at the paper the girl had given him. Upon it, written in a clumsy hand, was the address he wanted, and which he would have fought the world to obtain.
"Madame Bernstein," so it ran, "35, Rue Jacquarie, Paris."
"Very good," said Browne to himself triumphantly. "Now I know where to find them. Let me see! They were to leave London in an hour from nine o'clock; that means that they started from Victoria and are travelling viâ Newhaven and Dieppe. Now, there's a train from Charing Cross, viâ Dover and Calais, at eleven. If I can catch that I shall be in Paris an hour and a half after them."
He consulted his watch anxiously, to find that he had barely an hour in which to pack his bag and to get to the station. However, if it could be done, he was determined to do it; accordingly he bade his man drive faster. Reaching Park Lane, he rang for his valet, and when that somewhat stolid individual put in an appearance, bade him pack a few necessaries and be ready to start for the Continent at once. Being a well-drilled servant, and accustomed, by long usage, to his master's rapid flittings from place to place, the man offered no comment, but merely saying, "Very good, sir," departed to carry out his instructions.
Two minutes to eleven found Browne standing upon the platform at Charing Cross Station. It was not until he was comfortably installed in the carriage and the train was rolling out of the station, that the full meaning of what he was doing struck him. Why was he leaving England? To follow this girl. And why? For one very good reason—because he loved her! But why should he have loved her, when, with his wealth, he could have married the daughter of almost any peer in England; when, had he so desired, he could have chosen his wife from among the most beautiful or most talented women in Europe? Katherine Petrovitch, attractive and charming as she was, was neither as beautiful, rich, or clever as a hundred women he had met. And yet she was the one in the world he desired for his wife.
So concerned was he about her that, when they reached Dover, his first thought was to examine the sea in order to convince himself that she had had a good crossing. He boarded the steamer, the lines were cast off, and presently the vessel's head was pointing for the Continent. Little by little the English coast dropped behind them and the shores of France loomed larger. Never before had the coast struck him as being so beautiful. He entered the train at Calais with a fresh satisfaction as he remembered that every revolution of the wheels was bringing him closer to the woman he loved. The lights were lit in the cafés and upon the boulevards, when he reached Paris, and as he drove through the crowded streets in the direction of the hotel he usually affected the city seemed all glitter, gaiety, and life.
Familiar as he was with the city, it seemed altogether different to him to-night. The loungers in the courtyard of the hotel, the bustling waiters, the very chambermaids, served to remind him that, while in the flesh he was still the same John Grantham Browne, in the spirit he was an altogether separate and distinct individual from the man they had previously known. On reaching his own room he opened the window, leant out, and looked upon Paris by night. The voice of the great city spoke to him, and greeted him as with the sweetest music. Once more he was sharing the same city with Katherine Petrovitch, breathing the same air, and hearing the same language.
Shutting the window at last, he washed off the stains of travel, changed his attire, and descended to the dining-hall.
Having no desire to lose time, he resolved to institute inquiries at once about the Rue Jacquarie, and to seek, and if possible to obtain, an interview with Katherine before she could possibly depart from Paris again. How was he to know that Madame Bernstein's plans might not necessitate another removal to Rome, Berlin, or St. Petersburg?—in which case he might very easily lose sight of her altogether. He had never trusted madame, and since her departure from England he was even less disposed to do so than before. There was something about her that he did not altogether appreciate. He had told himself that he did not like her the first day he had met her at Merok, and he was even more convinced of the fact now. What the link was between the two women he could not think, and he was almost afraid to attempt to solve the mystery.
Dinner at an end, he rose and went to his room to put on a cloak. In love though he was, he had still sufficient of his father's prudence left to be careful of his health.