“When would you like to go to the Commissioner of Police?” asked the Count.

“Is there any reason why we should not go now?”

“No.  Let us go at once.  I only had the feeling that you might hear from her any moment.”

Together they walked up into the little town of Lacville.  To each any expedition in which the other took part had become delightful.  They were together now more than they had ever been before.  No, Count Paul could not be sorry that Sylvia’s friend had left Lacville.  He had no wish for her return.

At last they came to a rather mean-looking white house; out of one of the windows hung a tricolour flag.

“Here we are!” he said briefly.

“It doesn’t look a very imposing place,” said Sylvia smiling.

But all the same, as the Count rang the bell Sylvia suddenly felt as if she would like to run away!  After all, what should she say to the Commissioner of Police?  Would he think her interference in Anna’s affairs strange and uncalled for?  But she kept her thoughts to herself.

They were shown into a room where a tired-looking man bent over a large, ink-stained table littered over with papers.

“Monsieur?  Madame?” he glanced up inquiringly, and gave them a searching look.  But he did not rise from the table, as Sylvia expected him to do.  “What can I do for you?” he said.  “I am at your service,” and again he stared with insistent curiosity at the couple before him, at the well-dressed young Englishwoman and at her French companion.

The Count explained at some length why they had come.

And then at last the Commissioner of Police got up.

“Madame has now been at Lacville three weeks?”—­and he quickly made a note of the fact on a little tablet he held in his hand.  “And her friend, a Polish lady named Wolsky, has left Lacville rather suddenly?  Madame has, however, received a letter from her friend explaining that she had to leave unexpectedly?”

“No,” said Sylvia, quickly, “the letter was not sent to me; it was left by my friend in her bed-room at the Pension Malfait.  You see, the strange thing, Monsieur, is that Madame Wolsky left all her luggage.  She took absolutely nothing with her, excepting, of course, her money.  And as yet nothing has come from her, although she promised to telegraph where her luggage was to be sent on to her!  I come to you because I am afraid that she had met with some accident in the Paris streets, and I thought you would be able to telephone for us to the Paris Police.”

She looked very piteously at the French official, and his face softened, a kindly look came over it.

“Well, Madame,” he said, “I will certainly do everything I can.  But I must ask you to provide me first with a few more particulars about your friend.”

“I will tell you everything I know.  But I really do not know very much.”

“Her age?” said the Commissioner.