"Why not write to him, ma'am?" Turner suggested.
"I've forgotten the name of his hotel," said Zora, wrinkling her forehead.
The name of the Hôtel Quincamboeuf, where he lodged, eluded her memory.
"I do wish I knew," she repeated.
Then she caught an involuntary but illuminating gleam in Turner's eye, and she bade her look for hairpins. Inwardly she gasped from the shock of revelation; then she laughed to herself, half amused, half indignant. The preposterous absurdity of the suggestion! But in her heart she realized that, in some undefined human fashion, Septimus Dix counted for something in her life. What had become of him?
At last she found him one morning sitting by a table in the courtyard of the Grand Hotel, patiently awaiting her descent. By mere chance she was un-Callendered.
"Why, what—?"
The intended reproval died on her lips as she saw his face. His cheeks were hollow and white, his eyes sunken The man was ill. His hand burned through her glove. Feelings warm and new gushed forth.
"Oh, my dear friend, what is the matter?"
"I must go back to England. I came to say good-bye. I've had this from Wiggleswick."