“Braith! Is that you?”
There was no answer. His voice sounded hollow in the tiled hallway.
“Braith,” he said again. “I thought I heard him say ‘Rex.’” But he kept on to the next floor and stopped before the door of the room which was directly under his own. He paused, hesitated, looking up at a ray of light which came out from a crack in the transom.
“It’s too late,” he muttered, and turned away irresolutely.
A clear voice called from within, “Entrez donc, Monsieur.”
He opened the door and went in.
On a piano stood a shaded lamp, which threw a soft yellow light over everything. The first glance gave him a hasty impression of a white lace-covered bed and a dainty toilet table on which stood a pair of tall silver candlesticks; and then, as the soft voice spoke again, “Will Monsieur be seated?” he turned and confronted the girl whom he had helped in the Place de la Concorde. She lay in a cloud of fleecy wrappings on a lounge that was covered with a great white bearskin. Her blue eyes met Gethryn’s, and he smiled faintly. She spoke again:
“Will Monsieur sit a little nearer? It is difficult to speak loudly—I have so little strength.”
Gethryn walked over to the sofa and half unconsciously sank down on the rug which fell on the floor by the invalid’s side. He spoke as he would to a sick child.
“I am so very glad you are better. I inquired of the concierge and she told me.”