It was a damp, drizzling morning when he reached his journey's end. Perhaps no town changes so much with change of weather as Paris; muddy streets, wet umbrellas, heavy grey clouds disguise it completely, and give it the aspect of a beautiful coquette, in deshabille and a bad temper. As early as etiquette would permit Glynn took his way to the Rue de L'Evêque, hoping to find Lambert, as he could not expect to gather any information from Elsie. Hailing a fiacre, he told the driver where to go, and smiled to himself at the notion of Lady Gethin's alarm, thinking that if she knew how fast his heart was beating she would resign all hope of saving him. As he approached the house Glynn saw that his driver had either forgotten or mistaken the number, and was driving past it. He had just started forward to stop him when he saw two men come out of the entrance, and turning their backs on his conveyance, walk smartly down the street in close conversation. They were Deering and Vincent. A quick thrill of pain, of anticipated evil, shot through him as he recognized them. He feared he knew not what. But above and beyond all reasoning, he felt that their companionship, their presence, were omens of trouble and of wrong.
"Stop where you are, I will descend here," he called to the driver, and was soon springing up the familiar stairs. How vividly the perfume of the orange blossoms reminded him of the surprised admiration which Elsie and her home had excited on his first visit.
"Oh! it is you, monsieur!" cried Celestine, directly she opened the door; "I will tell Madame Weber, and I am sure mademoiselle will receive you." She went into the salon, and returned almost immediately. "Enter, monsieur, but enter; mademoiselle will be pleased to see you."
Miss Lambert was alone when Glynn found himself in her presence, and sitting at a writing-table; she rose quickly, and came forward, with outstretched hands, "I am so glad you have come." Glynn did not speak immediately—he was surprised at the intensity of his own delight on finding himself once more beside her, listening to her voice, holding her hand, gazing into her eyes. He did not know he was so far gone. She looked paler, thinner, graver, than when he last saw her. She wore a black dress, and had a small scarf of delicate lace tied loosely round her throat. Her bright brown hair looked golden even in the dull light of a grey day, and there was something sad in her pose and expression that Glynn found infinitely touching.
"You knew I should return—at least your father did," he said at length.
"My father did expect you; but I—I thought it likely that when you were amongst your own friends, your own people, you would not care to leave them."
"I am afraid that you are not so well as when I left," said Glynn, drawing a chair near her writing-table, at which she had reseated herself. "It is perhaps impertinent to say that you are not looking as well, as brilliant as you were."
"Brilliant," she repeated, with a brief sweet laugh. "That I never could be; but you are right, I am ill,—ill at ease, I mean. My father. Ah!—he is so changed! And he is angry if I notice it; but he is very unhappy, I know he is. That is why I am so glad you have come; he can speak to you, he may speak to you. You may be able to help him; but I am only a helpless, ignorant girl. Yet I could do much if I were directed."
"I should be most happy to be of any use to Captain Lambert," said Glynn. "No doubt your affectionate anxiety inclines you to exaggerate, but——"
"When you see him you will understand," interrupted Elsie, "you will see that I do not exaggerate. He will not tell me what has happened. He says he has not lost his fortune. I should not care if he had, for I could earn money by singing, though not on the stage. However, my knowing would not help him, because I have always been shut up and am so ignorant. You do not mind me telling you all this, do you? Though I have not known you long, my father has, and—and—you seem like a real friend to him."