Soon he came upon the hotel on the Digue, facing the sea. The name in golden letters a yard long danced before his eyes, but with a great effort of the will he steadied himself, and passed through the door into the hall.
As luck would have it there was no one about, and the only person to come forward at his entrance was a small page or lift boy.
Yes, Madame Vanderstein was in her room. Would Monsieur go up?
Certainly Monsieur would; and he was ushered into the lift and carried aloft.
He heard Madame Querterot’s voice say “Come in” in response to the boy’s knock, and in another minute he was in the room, with the door closing behind him.
For a moment he thought there must be some mistake, and, if she had not spoken, would have turned and fled. Surely he had never seen before the beautifully dressed, dark-haired lady who was bending over a box at the end of the room.
But at the sound of her voice he knew her again, though the difference in her appearance caused by her dyed hair and painted complexion was truly marvellous. She wore her elaborate dress with quiet assurance, and jewels sparkled at her throat, in her ears, on her fingers, her wrists.
“What in the world are you doing here?” she said, in a tone of the deepest disapproval.
Bert’s voice shook as he took the paper from his pocket and held it out to her.
“Have you seen this?” he asked. “Every one in London knows you are here. It is madness to stay.”