Whatever it might be—the mystery which embraced her—Paul determined, whether it pleased her or not, that he would range himself on her side.
To do this, however, it would be necessary to discover what the mystery was, and he proceeded to set up and then demolish a thousand and one theories to account for her plight; and he was still far from the solution when he fell asleep.
CHAPTER VII
gain the mid-day sun was gilding the canopy of his couch when Paul awoke. He sprang up and dressed hurriedly. That day he must discover who the lady was.
Renewed inquiries of Monsieur Jacques yielded no further information. Rose-red lips and coils of raven hair no longer made on the maître d'hôtel the same impression as in the golden days when the band played dreamy waltzes and dashing gentlemen leaned caressingly over dazzling shoulders.
Of the man he had felled, Paul spoke never a word. Apparently he had vanished as he had come—unknown.
"Truly, Sir Paul, there has been no lady here to answer your description. But stop! A Russian lady perhaps, you say? Il est possible." Monsieur Jacques laid a searching finger on his speculative brow. "Mademoiselle Vseslavitch, peut-être. Yes—tall, surely,—a brunette, too, like most of those Russians. She left this morning, quite early."