Six o'clock found Gerald Burton at the café where he had left his bag, ready for a cup of good coffee.
The woman who served him—the waiters were still asleep—told him of a room likely to be disengaged the next night.
The next night? But if Dampier were to come back this morning—as, according to one theory, he was very likely to do—then he, Gerald, would have no need of a room.
Somehow that possibility was not as agreeable to him as it ought to have been. In theory Gerald Burton longed for this unknown man's return—for a happy solution, that is, of the strange mystery which had been cast, in so dramatic a fashion, athwart the Burtons' placid, normal life; but, scarce consciously to himself, the young American felt that Dampier's reappearance would end, and that rather tamely, an exciting and in some ways a very fascinating adventure.
As he came up the Rue Saint Ange, he saw their landlord, a blue apron tied about his portly waist, busily brushing the pavement in front of the hotel with a yellow broom.
"Well?" he said eagerly, "well, Monsieur Poulain, any news?"
Poulain looked up at him and shook his head. "No, Monsieur Gerald," he said sullenly, "no news at all."
CHAPTER V
Nancy Dampier sat up in bed.
Long rays of bright sunlight filtering in between deep blue curtains showed her a large, lofty room, with panelled walls, and furniture covered with blue damask silk.