"What hotel do you mean to try?" she inquired, when she went out with Rose into the broad daylight, a welcome relief from the darkened house and what was being transacted in it.
"I shall try them all in succession, until I find him," returned Rose. "I think he must use the Hôtel des Bains. I know Frank does."
Rose bent her steps towards that renowned hostelry, and turned boldly into the yard. A man came forward with a cloth on his arm, waiter fashion.
"Monsieur de Saint John," she began, "est-il descendu ici?"
The man stammered something in wretched French, "comprenais pas," and Rose found he was a very native Englishman.
Mr. St. John was staying there, but was going on to Paris in the evening. He was out just then.
"Out!" cried Rose, not expecting this check to her impatience. "Where's he gone?"
Of course the waiter could not say where. Rose intimated that her business was of importance; that she must see him. The group stood looking at each other in indecision.
"If you would like to go to his room and wait, ladies, I have the key," suggested the man. "It is only on the first floor."
"What is to be done, Mary Carr?" cried Rose, tapping her foot in pettish annoyance.