“Going already?” said Mueller, encountering us on the landing, with a roll in one hand and a Bologna sausage in the other.

“Already!  Why, my dear fellow, it is nearly seven o’clock!”

“Qu’importe?  Come up to the supper-room and have some breakfast!”

“Not for the world!”

“Well, chacun a son gout.  I am as hungry as a hunter.”

“Can I not take you any part of your way?”

“No, thank you.  I am a Quartier Latinist, pur sang, and lodge only a street or two off.  Stay, here is my address.  Come and see me—­you can’t think how glad I shall be!”

“Indeed, I will come—–­and here is my card in exchange.  Good-night, Herr Mueller.”

“Good-night, Marquis of Arbuthnot.  Mademoiselle Josephine, au plaisir.”

So we shook hands and parted, and I saw my innamorata home to her residence at No. 70, Rue Aubry le Boucher, which opened upon the Marche des Innocents.  She fell asleep upon my shoulder in the cab, and was only just sufficiently awake when I left her, to accept all the marrons glaces that yet remained in the pockets of my paletot, and to remind me that I had promised to take her out next Sunday for a drive in the country, and a dinner at the Moulin Rouge.

The fountain in the middle of the Marche was now sparkling in the sunshine like a shower of diamonds, and the business of the market was already at its height.  The shops in the neighboring streets were opening fast.  The “iron tongue” of St. Eustache was calling the devout to early prayer.  Fagged as I was, I felt that a walk through the fresh air would do me good; so I dismissed the cab, and reached my lodgings just as the sleepy concierge had turned out to sweep the hall, and open the establishment for the day.  When I came down again two hours later, after a nap and a bath, I found a commissionnaire waiting for me.

“Tiens!” said Madame Bouisse (Madame Bouisse was the wife of the concierge). “V’la! here is M’sieur Arbuthnot.”

The man touched his cap, and handed me a letter.

“I was told to deliver it into no hands but those of M’sieur himself,” said he.

The address was in Dalrymple’s writing.  I tore the envelope open.  It contained only a card, on the back of which, scrawled hastily in pencil, were the following words: 

“To have said good-bye would have made our parting none the lighter.  By the time you decipher this hieroglyphic I shall be some miles on my way:  Address Hotel de Russie, Berlin.  Adieu, Damon; God bless you.  O.D.”

“How long is it since this letter was given to you?” said I, without taking my eyes from the card.

The commissionnaire made no reply.  I repeated the question, looked up impatiently, and found that the man was already gone.

CHAPTER XX.