'You seek Monsieur Trist?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
'For a public or a private purpose?'
The portier had received his instructions.
'It is private, monsieur, quite private. It is but a small word from a lady in the hotel.'
'An English lady?'
'An English lady, monsieur; a widow, I believe. A Madame Huston, on the second floor.'
Trist held out his hand.
'Give it to me,' he said gently; 'I am Theodore Trist. The answer shall be despatched presently. You need not wait.'
As the messenger left the room, Trist broke open the envelope and unfolded a dainty note. He read it carefully, and then leant back leisurely in his chair. There was a peculiar expression upon his face, half annoyed, half puzzled. And (why should it be withheld?) beneath the sun-burn on his cheeks there was a slight change of colour. Theodore Trist experienced a strange sense of warmth in his countenance, and wondered what it meant. He was ignorant of the fact that his cheek was attempting to blush. From the expression of his eyes, however, this was not a sign of pleasure. He was ashamed of that note, and after the lapse of a few minutes he rose and threw it into the stove, the brass door of which he opened deftly with the toe of his boot.