“We’ll register first,” said John.  “I know it’s customary to send a waiter to the rooms for the names, but as our waiters have all gone out we’ll use the book now.”

Pen and ink stood beside the register and he wrote in a bold hand: 

Mademoiselle Julie Lannes, Paris, France.  Mademoiselle Suzanne Picard, Paris, France.  Monsieur Antoine Picard, Paris, France.  Mr. John Scott, New York, U.S.A.

Julie looked over his shoulder.

“It is well,” she said.  “If Philip arrives perhaps he will come to the hotel and see our names registered here.”

“And we’ll reserve a good room for him,” said John, “but although I don’t want to appear a pessimist, Miss Julie, I don’t think he’ll come just now, at least not in the Arrow.  All aeroplane, balloon and Zeppelin trains have stopped running during the blizzard.  Blizzard is an American word of ours meaning a driving storm.  It’s expressive, and it can be used with advantage in Europe.  What accommodations do you wish, Madame la Princesse?”

“A sitting-room, a bedroom and a bath for myself, and a room each for my maid, Suzanne, and my faithful retainer, her father, Antoine Picard.”

“You shall have all that you wish and more,” said John, and then dropping into his usual tone he said:  “I think we’d better look over the rooms together.  It’s barely possible some looter may be prowling in the house.  Of course, the electric power is cut off, but Suzanne will know where to find candles, and we can provide for all the light we need.”

He thought of light, because the heavy storm outside kept the hotel in shadow, and he knew that when night came, depression and gloom would settle upon them, unless they found some way to dispel the darkness.  Despite the silence of the hotel they had a sense of comfort.  They had been oppressed in the cathedral by its majesty and religious gloom, but this was the haunt of men and women who used to come in cheerfully from the day’s business and who laughed and talked in rooms and on the stairways.

John’s imaginative mind was alive at once.  He beheld pleasant specters all about him.  Chastel was off the great highways, but many quiet tourists must have come here.  The beautiful cathedral, the picturesque situation of the little town above the little river and the very ancient Gothic buildings must have been an attraction to the knowing.  He could shut his eyes and see them now, many of them his own countrymen and countrywomen, walking in the halls after a day of sightseeing, comparing notes, or looking through the windows down at the little river that foamed below.  Yes, Chastel had been a pleasant town and one could pass many days in right company in its Hotel de l’Europe.

“What are you smiling at, Mr. John?” asked Julie.

It was the first time she had called him “Mr. John,” the equivalent for his “Miss Julie,” and he liked it.  But he hid his pleasure and apparently took no notice of it.