And then Sylvia Bailey began to think of her new friend:  of Anna Wolsky.  She was sorry, very sorry, that they were going to part so soon.  If only Anna would consent to come on with her to Switzerland!  But alas! there was no chance of that, for there are no Casinos, no gambling, in the land of William Tell.

There came a knock at the door, and Madame Wolsky walked in.  She was dressed for a journey.

“I have to go out of town this morning,” she said, “but the place I am going to is quite near, and I shall be back this afternoon.”

“Where are you going?” asked Sylvia, naively.  “Or is it a secret?”

“No, it is not a secret.”  Anna smiled provokingly.  “I am going to go to a place called Lacville.  I do not suppose you have ever heard of Lacville, Sylvia?”

The other shook her head.

“I thought not,” cried Anna, suddenly bursting out laughing.  Then, “Good-bye!” she exclaimed, and she was gone before Sylvia could say anything else.

Lacville?  There had been a sparkle, a look of life, of energy in Anna’s face.  Why was Anna Wolsky going to Lacville?  There was something about the place concerning which she had chosen to be mysterious, and yet she had made no secret of going there.

Mrs. Bailey jumped out of bed, and dressed rather more quickly than usual.

It was a very hot day.  In fact, it was unpleasantly hot.  How delightful it would be to get into the country even for an hour.  Why should she not also make her way to Lacville?

She opened the “Guide-Book to Paris and its Environs,” of which she had made such good use in the last month, and looked up “Lacville” in the index.

Situated within a drive of the beautiful Forest of Montmorency, the pretty little town of Lacville is still famed for its healing springs and during the summer months of the year is much frequented by Parisians.  There are frequent trains from the Gare du Nord.

No kind fairy whispered the truth to Sylvia—­namely that this account is only half, nay, a quarter, or an eighth, of the truth.

Lacville is the spendthrift, the gambler—­the austere would call her the chartered libertine—­of the group of pretty country towns which encircle Paris; for Lacville is in the proud possession of a Gambling Concession which has gradually turned what was once the quietest of inland watering-places into a miniature Monte Carlo.

The vast majority of intelligent, cultivated English and American visitors to Paris remain quite unaware that there is, within half an hour of the French capital, such a spot; the minority, those tourists who do make their way to the alluring little place, generally live to regret it.

But Sylvia knew nothing, nay, less than nothing, of all this, and even if she had known, it would not have stayed her steps to-day.

She put on her hat and hurried down to the office.  There M. Girard would doubtless tell her of a good train to Lacville, and if it were a small place she might easily run across Anna Wolsky.