It was one of the English acquaintances of the night before who found him later in the day, still seeking, still wandering from street to street.
His old friend Langton came to him and took him away from the hotel to his own house. Alphonse wept and the concierge could not restrain a tear.
"And have they found her yet?" asked Mrs Langton that night of her husband when he came in late.
His face was very white.
"Yes," he said, and turned his head away. "I've been to—I've seen—no one could have told—you would not have known who it was. And all her little things, her watch and rings—they were all gone. But the maid knew by the dress. And—and I wanted to save a lock of hair, but"—his voice broke down.—"So I got one of the little gloves for him. It was the only thing I could."
He pulled out a half-worn tan glove, cut and dusty with the tramp of many feet, which the new wedding ring had worn ever so slightly on the third finger. He laid it reverently on the table and hid his face in his hands.
"If he could only break down," he said at last. "He sits and sits, and never speaks or looks up."
"Take him the little glove," said his wife softly. And Langton took it.