“I do not know her age, but I suppose she is about thirty.”

“The place of her birth?”

Sylvia shook her head.

“What is her permanent address?  Surely you know with whom you could communicate the news of an accident having happened to her?”

“I am afraid I don’t even know that.”  Sylvia began to feel rather foolish.  But—­but was it so strange after all?  Who among the people she was now living with knew anything of her far-away English home?  If anything happened to herself, for instance?  Even Count Paul would not know to whom to write.  It was an odd, rather an uncomfortable thought.

The Commissioner went to a drawer and pulled out from it a portfolio filled with loose pieces of paper.

“Malfait?  Malfait?  Malfait?” he muttered interrogatively to himself.  And at last he found what he was looking for.  It was a large sheet, on which was inscribed in large round letters “Pension Malfait.”  There were many close lines of writing under the words.  He looked down and read through all that was there.

“The Pension Malfait has a good reputation!” he exclaimed, in a relieved tone.  “I gather from what you say, Monsieur,”—­he gave a quick shrewd look at the Count—­“that Madame and her friend did not play in a serious sense at the Casino—­I mean, there was no large sum of money in question?”

Count Paul hesitated—­but Sylvia thought that surely it were better to tell the truth.

“Yes,” she said, “my friend did play, and she played rather high.  She must have had a large sum of money in her possession when she left Lacville, unless she lost it all on the last day.  But I was in Paris, and so I don’t know what she did.”

The Commissioner looked grave.

“Ah, but that alters the case very much!” he said.  “I must request you to come with me to the Pension Malfait.  We had better pursue our inquiries there.  If this Madame Wolsky had a large sum of money in notes and gold, it becomes very important that we should know where she is.”

They all three left the shabby little house together, and Sylvia could not help wondering what would happen there while they were gone.  But the Commissioner solved her doubts by turning the key in the door.

The Count hailed a cab, and they all got into it.  Then followed a curious little drive.  The Commissioner made polite conversation with Mrs. Bailey.  He spoke of the beauties of Lacville.  “And Madame,” he said, pleasantly, “is staying at the Villa du Lac?  It is a charming house, with historic associations.”

Sylvia was surprised.  She remembered clearly that she had not told the police official where she was staying.

When they reached the Pension Malfait they were kept waiting a few moments, but at last M. Malfait appeared in the hall.  He received them with obsequious amiability.

Still, even Sylvia could not but be aware that he was extremely angry, and she herself felt wretchedly uncomfortable.  What if Anna Wolsky were all right after all?  Would she not blame her for having made such a fuss?