"Do you think her father will thank you?"
"I do. Can you doubt his agonized impatience until he can get tidings of his daughter?"
"No; but there is something in the affair I cannot quite fathom."
There was a pause. "I suppose," resumed Glynn, "there is no objection to my visiting the ladies your agent describes?"
"None; in the absence of the father."
"Then I shall start at once. Give me a line of introduction to your representative. I shall telegraph to you the result of my journey. No doubt you will see M. Lambert back to-morrow."
M. Claude wrote the desired letter, and armed with it, Glynn left the bureau.
A rapid journey followed, a journey such as men make in bad dreams, with a curious sense of acting under some hideous malignant influence, a depressing anticipation of coming failure. Often in after-life the memory of that journey came back as the most painful experience of all he had ever known for years—it haunted him with thrills of horror. Little he heeded the quaint aspects of the old mediæval town, though the picture of the streets through which he was conducted to the Hôtel des Trois Couronnes remained forever stamped upon his memory.
His anticipations were fulfilled. The ladies were both total strangers to him; he had therefore nothing for it but to apologize and retire.
Back to Paris, where Lambert had not yet returned, and M. Claude received him with cold displeasure. M. Claude was growing impatient at the unwonted failure of his emissaries. It was now six days since the disappearance of Miss Lambert, and not the faintest clue had been found by which to trace her.