Thinking, however, that he might return and purchase it, he glanced up at the sign.  One look and he gave a sudden start backward, coming violently in contact with a gentleman who was passing.  Quincy’s apology was accepted and the gentleman passed on, giving his right shoulder an occasional pressure to make sure that it was not dislocated.  Then Quincy took another look at the sign to make sure that he had not been mistaken.  On it he read, in large golden letters, “Mdme. Archimbault.”

It was but the work of an instant for Quincy to enter the store and approach the only attendant, who was behind the counter nearest the door.

“Could I see Mdme. Archimbault?” he inquired in the politest possible manner.

“Ze madame eez seeck zis morning, monsieur, mais ze Mademoiselle Celeste eez in ze boudoir.”

As she said this she pointed to a partition with windows of ground glass, which extended across the farther end of the store, evidently forming a private department for trying on hats and bonnets.  Quincy said nothing, but taking out his cardcase passed one to the attendant.

The girl walked towards the boudoir, opened the door and entered.  Quincy followed her, and was but a few feet from the door when it was closed.  He heard a woman’s voice say, “What is it, Hortense?” And the girl’s reply was distinctly audible.  This is what she said, “A veezitor, mademoiselle.”

An instant’s silence, followed by a smothered cry of astonishment, evidently from mademoiselle.  Then ensued a short conversation, carried on in whispers.  Then Hortense emerged from the boudoir, and facing Quincy said, “Ze mademoiselle weel not zee you.  She has no desire to continue ze acquaintance.”

As she said this she stepped behind the counter, evidently thinking that Quincy would accept the rebuff and depart.  Instead of doing this he took a step forward, which brought him between Hortense and the door of the boudoir.  Turning to the girl he said in a low tone, “There must be some mistake.  I have never met Mademoiselle Archimbault.  I will go in and explain the purpose of my visit.”  And before Hortense could prevent him, Quincy had entered the boudoir and closed the door behind him.

In the centre of the room stood a beautifully carved and inlaid table.  Before it sat an elegantly-dressed woman, whose hair, artistically arranged, was of the darkest shade of brown—­almost black.  Her arms were crossed upon the table, her face was buried in them, and from her came a succession of convulsive sobs, that indicated she was in great physical or mental distress.

Quincy felt that she knew he was there, but he did not speak.

Finally she said, and there was a tone of deep suffering in her voice:  “Oh!  Algernon, why have you followed me?  I can never, never marry you.  If it had been possible I would have met you that evening, as I promised.”

The thought flashed across Quincy’s mind, “This is the girl that ran away from Lord Hastings.  But why did she call me Algernon?” Then he spoke for the first time.  “Mademoiselle, there is some misunderstanding; my name is not Algernon.  I am not Lord Hastings.”