Not much more of the missing baronet could Maynard learn in London. Only the on dit in political circles that he had been entrusted with some sort of secret circular mission to the European courts, or those of them known as the Great Powers.
Its secrecy must have been deemed important for Sir George to travel incognito. And so must he have travelled; else Maynard, diligently consulting the chronicles of the times, should have discovered his whereabouts.
This he had daily done, making inquiries elsewhere, and without success; until, months after, his eye fell upon the paragraph in question.
Had he still faith in that presentiment, several times so confidently expressed?
If so, it did not hinder him from passing over to Paris, and taking steps to help in the desired destiny.
Certain it was still desired. The anxiety he had shown to get upon the track of Sir George’s travel, the haste made on discovering it, and the diligence he was now showing to find the English baronet’s address in the French capital, were proofs that he was not altogether a fatalist.
During the twenty-four hours since his arrival in Paris, he had made inquiries at every hotel where such a guest was likely to make stay. But no Sir George Vernon—no English baronet could be found.
He had at length determined to try at the English Embassy. But that was left for the next day; and, like all strangers, he went out to take a stroll along the Boulevards.
He had reached that of Montmartre as the thought, chronicled above, occurred to him.
It could scarce have been suggested by anything he there saw. Passing and meeting him were the Parisian people—citizens of a free republic, with a president of their own choice. The bluff bourgeois, with sa femme linked on his left arm, and sa fille, perhaps a pretty child, hand-led, on his right. Behind him it might be a brace of gaily-dressed grisettes, close followed by a couple of the young dorés, exchanging stealthy glance or bold repartee.