He was recalling to mind the pathetic spectacle presented by her agitated little figure, when his eyes chanced to fall upon a small shop he was then passing.  It was devoted to ladies’ furnishings, and as he took in the contents of the window and such articles as could be seen on the shelves beyond, a happy thought came to him.

Madame Duclos had left her hotel in a hurry, carrying but few of her belongings with her.  A lady of cultivated taste, she must have missed many articles necessary to her comfort; and having money would naturally buy them.  Prevented by her fears from going downtown, or even from going anywhere in the daytime, what was left for her to do but to patronize some such small shop as this.  Its nearness to her late refuge, as well as its neat and attractive appearance, made this seem all the more likely.  A question or two would suffice to settle his mind on this point and perhaps lead to results which might prove invaluable in his present emergency.

Signaling to the chauffeur to stop, he got out in front of this little shop, toward which he immediately proceeded, with an uncertainty of step not altogether assumed.  He did have some rheumatic twinges that day.

Entering, Mr. Gryce first cast a comprehensive glance at the shelves and counters, to make sure that he would find here the line of dress-goods in which he had decided to invest; then, approaching the middle-aged woman who seemed to be in charge, he engaged her in a tedious display of the goods, which led on to talk and finally to a casual remark from him, quite in keeping with the anxiety he had been careful to show.

“I am buying this for a woman to whom you have probably sold many odd little things within the past few days.  Perhaps you knew her taste, and can help me choose what will please her.  She lives down the street and buys always in the evening—­a dark, genteel appearing Frenchwoman, with a strange way of looking down even when other people would be likely to look up.  Do you remember her?”

Yes, she remembered her and recognized her perfectly from this description.  He saw this at once, but he kept right on talking as he handled first one piece of goods and then another, seeming to hesitate between the gray and the brown.

“She went out of town yesterday, and wanted this material sent after her.  Do you think you could do that for me, or shall I have to see to expressing it myself?  I’ll do it if I must—­only I’ve forgotten her exact address.”  This he muttered self-reproachfully, “I’ve a shocking bad memory, and it’s growing worse every day.  You don’t happen to know where she’s gone to, do you?”

The innocence of this appeal from one of his years and benevolent aspect did not appear to raise the woman’s suspicion; yet she limited her reply to this short statement: 

“I’ll send the goods, if you will make your choice.”  And it was not till long after that he learned that Madame Duclos, being very anxious for her mail and such newspapers as she wanted, had made arrangements with this woman to forward them.