Monsieur George remarked grumpily that he couldn’t say.

The other tried to appear at ease.  Tongues were wagging about it in Paris.  There was a sort of international financier, a fellow with an Italian name, a shady personality, who had been looking for her all over Europe and talked in clubs—­astonishing how such fellows get into the best clubs—­oh!  Azzolati was his name.  But perhaps what a fellow like that said did not matter.  The funniest thing was that there was no man of any position in the world who had disappeared at the same time.  A friend in Paris wrote to him that a certain well-known journalist had rushed South to investigate the mystery but had returned no wiser than he went.

Monsieur George remarked more unamiably than before that he really could not help all that.

“No,” said the other with extreme gentleness, “only of all the people more or less connected with the Carlist affair you are the only one that had also disappeared before the final collapse.”

“What!” cried Monsieur George.

“Just so,” said the other meaningly.  “You know that all my people like you very much, though they hold various opinions as to your discretion.  Only the other day Jane, you know my married sister, and I were talking about you.  She was extremely distressed.  I assured her that you must be very far away or very deeply buried somewhere not to have given a sign of life under this provocation.

Naturally Monsieur George wanted to know what it was all about; and the other appeared greatly relieved.

“I was sure you couldn’t have heard.  I don’t want to be indiscreet, I don’t want to ask you where you were.  It came to my ears that you had been seen at the bank to-day and I made a special effort to lay hold of you before you vanished again; for, after all, we have been always good friends and all our lot here liked you very much.  Listen.  You know a certain Captain Blunt, don’t you?”

Monsieur George owned to knowing Captain Blunt but only very slightly.  His friend then informed him that this Captain Blunt was apparently well acquainted with Madame de Lastaola, or, at any rate, pretended to be.  He was an honourable man, a member of a good club, he was very Parisian in a way, and all this, he continued, made all the worse that of which he was under the painful necessity of warning Monsieur George.  This Blunt on three distinct occasions when the name of Madame de Lastaola came up in conversation in a mixed company of men had expressed his regret that she should have become the prey of a young adventurer who was exploiting her shamelessly.  He talked like a man certain of his facts and as he mentioned names . . .

“In fact,” the young man burst out excitedly, “it is your name that he mentions.  And in order to fix the exact personality he always takes care to add that you are that young fellow who was known as Monsieur George all over the South amongst the initiated Carlists.”