‘But these ladies must surely have given instructions for their letters being sent after them,’ said Cyril. ‘But no, Monsieur. They received no letters while they were here; they appeared to expect none.’ ‘Did you never hear them talk of where they meant to go?’ ‘No, Monsieur, they were ladies of an extreme reserve--silent even--all that there is of the most gracious--but never communicative. They left St. Malo by the railway--that is all I can tell you. They did not leave by the English boat.’ Cyril was at a standstill. He seemed no nearer Beatrix now, at St. Malo, than he had been at Little Yafford. Six weeks ago she had been an inmate of this hotel, but in six weeks she might have travelled to the other end of Europe. She, who was as free as the wind, would hardly care to dawdle about the quiet old towns of Brittany. ‘Was Miss Harefield well--did she seem in good spirits?’ he asked the landlady. ‘Alas, no! she had been suffering. She came to St. Servans for the sea baths. She needed strength. She had the air of one who had suffered much grief. Madame Leonard was always bright and cheerful, and devoted to the young lady; but the English miss was not happy. That showed itself to the eye.’ ‘Had she any medical attendant while she was with you?’ ‘No. She mocked herself of doctors.’ Cyril thanked the kindly proprietress, and strolled idly away from the hotel. He knew not which direction to take. The prospect was discouraging. Perhaps, after all, he would be compelled to put an advertisement in the _Times_, informing Beatrix, in veiled words, that a letter of her father’s awaited her at a certain address. But even if he did this, how could he be sure she would see the paper? He knew of old how difficult it is to find an English newspaper in a French provincial town. No, he must find her himself; but to his impatience the thing seemed hopeless at the outset. He walked through the well-remembered streets, by the ever-improving fortifications, white stone walls looking out upon a bright blue sea. The yellow sands by the Grand Bé were deserted by their holiday crowd. The cold autumn winds swept over the long low shores. Everything had a desolate look. Cyril went into St. Malo to see the churches, which he remembered years ago. He spent a couple of hours looking at painted windows and sculptured tombs. And then he wasted another hour strolling about the streets and the quay, watching the boat being loaded, and wondering what he should do next. And then he went to the railway station to find out all about the trains, with a vague hope that some idea might suggest itself as to Beatrix’s journey when she left St. Malo. He was on his way to the station when a face flashed upon him in one of the narrow streets, and passed him by before he had time to remember where he had seen it. Whose face could it be, and why was it so familiar?