FRANCINE DE CORANTIN.
She gave no address.
Bobby read the letter again and again; he could hardly believe his eyes. The worst thing that could possibly happen had befallen him. Where could she have gone, and why couldn’t she tell him, and oh, how could he have been such a fool as to have gone on sleeping like a stupid log at the moment that she was going away? He would never be able to forgive himself for that. Was there any connection between her departure and her meeting with Alistair Ramsey? Bobby tried to concentrate his mind on the problem, but it baffled him.
Completely bewildered, he cross-questioned the hall porter, but he could add nothing to what he had already said. Madame de Corantin had gone and she had left no address and he had not the slightest idea where, nor did he know to what station she had gone. A car had come for her, apparently a private one, she had not ordered it at the hotel. What trains were there leaving? Oh, there were numbers; there was one to Rouen and Havre and also to Dieppe about that time, to Bordeaux and San Sebastian, to all kinds of places. Bobby realized the utter hopelessness of attempting to trace her. Wretchedly the hours passed; in the middle of the afternoon he decided that whatever happened he would not stay another night in Paris. The thought of it sickened him. Paris, the hotel, and everything else had become hateful. No, he would spend that night at Dieppe, and go to London the next day, that was all he could think of.
Back in London, Bobby’s condition of misery, so far from improving, became worse. His life, aimless enough ever since the War, seemed now more aimless than ever. Every man he knew had something to do; he alone was objectless and workless. More profoundly than ever he realized all that Madame de Corantin had meant to him. Her disappearance had made his life a blank. Had there been some glimmer of hope, however slight, of penetrating the mystery, had there been the faintest clue to her present whereabouts, he would have thrown himself heart and soul into the endeavour to trace her, but he had absolutely nothing to go upon.
Weary and desolate, he haunted restaurants and hotels, in the vague hope that chance might some day yield him a glimpse of her, as a gambler clings to a faint prospect of redeeming his fortunes through some wonderful and unexpected revulsion of luck. But the days passed without the slightest encouragement, and his misery turned almost to despair.
At last, at his wits’ end to know what to do with himself, he besought a boon companion of his night life to come to his rescue. To this one war had brought opportunity. His name was Bertram Trent. He had lived all sorts of lives, had been married and divorced, and had made his appearance more than once in the Bankruptcy Court, but he had knocked about the world and seen service.
Offering himself at the beginning of the War, he had taken part in the Great Retreat and had been wounded. On his recovery he had been given the command of a battalion, and at Bobby’s earnest entreaty he promised him a commission, provided he could get it confirmed at the War Office. This saved Bobby. He lost no time in putting in his application, and, awaiting the Gazette, he occupied himself in ordering his kit and in getting himself into some sort of physical condition to undertake duties for which his previous life had ill-prepared him. Though considerably past the age for military service, he had not contemplated the possibility of being refused a commission.
Dropping in one day at the Carlton for lunch, he met Harold Clancey, who, to his surprise, was wearing the Staff cap. Clancey told him that he had been working for some time at the War Office, and had been given the rank of captain.
“Let’s have lunch together,” suggested Bobby.