A Maker of History. E. Phillips Oppenheim

       Grand Hotel, Paris.

      "If one could only," Madame murmured, "tell him the truth, collect the money—and——"

      "And," Flossie murmured, half fearfully.

      Monsieur le Baron smiled!

CHAPTER IX

       Table of Contents

      THE STORY OF A CALL

      Mademoiselle Mermillon was not warmly welcomed at the Grand Hotel. The porter believed that Sir George Duncombe was out. He would inquire, if Mademoiselle would wait, but he did not usher her into the drawing-room, as would have been his duty in an ordinary case, or even ask her to take a seat.

      Mademoiselle Mermillon was of the order of young person who resents, but this afternoon she was far too nervous. During the porter's temporary absence she started at every footstep, and scrutinized anxiously every passer-by. Often she looked behind her through the glass doors into the street. When at last he reappeared alone her disappointment was obvious.

      "Sir George Duncombe is out, Mademoiselle," he announced. "Will you be pleased to leave a message, or your name?"

      "You do not know how long he will be?" she inquired.

      "Sir George left no word," the man answered. "He has been out since before déjeuner."

      Mademoiselle decided to leave a note. The porter supplied her with notepaper and envelopes. She sat down at a small round table, and once more glanced furtively around. Convinced that she was not being watched, she hastily wrote a few lines, sealed and addressed the envelope, and handed it to the porter.

      "You will give this to Sir George immediately he returns," she begged. "It is important."

      "Monsieur shall have it without doubt, Mademoiselle," the man answered.

      She pulled down her veil and left the place hurriedly. When she reached the boulevard she slackened her pace, and drew a little breath of relief.

      "Ten thousand francs!" she murmured to herself. "If I took that with me they would receive me at home. I might start all over again. It is worth a little risk. Heavens, how nervous I am!"

      She entered a café and drank à petit verre. As she set her glass down a man looked at her over the top of his newspaper. She tried to smile, but her heart was beating, and she was sick with fear.

      "What a fool I am!" she muttered. "It is a stranger, too. If he were one of Gustav's lot I should know him."

      She returned his smile, and he came and sat down beside her. They had another liqueur. Later they left the place together.

      Duncombe returned to his hotel tired out after a disappointing day spent in making fruitless inquiries in various parts of Paris. He had learnt nothing. He seemed as far off the truth as ever. He opened the note which the porter handed him listlessly enough. Afterwards, however, it was different. This is what he read:—