Mr Merton attended her to the outer door of the office, and she drove home well satisfied with her mission. Writing to her father, to tell him everything, and what she was going to do, she packed a small box to take with her, and then did little else but wish the day, which seemed interminable, gone. Long before it was necessary, she was at the station; and punctual to the appointed minute, Mr Merton appeared. After a journey that to Mabel seemed endless, they at length reached Paris, and drove straight to the hotel in which Wilfred lived. As they stopped, Mr Merton said: 'You may depend upon it we shall find our trouble wasted, and that the object of your anxiety is out somewhere amusing himself.' Mabel did not answer. She could hear her heart beat as she sprang out of the cab; and without waiting for her companion, entered the court-yard of the hotel, and went to the den appropriated to the _concierge_. That gentleman was reading a newspaper, in which he seemed much interested, and did not look up as she came near him. 'Monsieur Merton, est-il chez-lui?' she asked breathlessly. The concierge put his finger against the word he was reading, in mute protest against being interrupted, and looking slowly up, said rather dreamily: 'Plaît-il, Madame?' 'Monsieur Merton, est-il chez-lui?' she repeated more eagerly than before. The man turned round, and walking with the most provoking deliberation to the other end of the room, where numerous keys were hanging, looked at the place appropriated to the one belonging to Wilfred's room, and seeing that it was unoccupied, came back to Mabel and answered: 'Oui, Madame.' 'Quel est le numéro de sa chambre?' 'Soixante-deux, au cinquième,' said the concierge, returning to his paper as he finished speaking. Mr Merton had paid the driver and joined Mabel as this conversation came to an end, and they started to mount the stairs to the fifth floor as directed. Even Mabel's youth and energy could not prevent her from getting out of breath in that long climb; and by the time she and Mr Merton had arrived at the fourth floor, they were obliged to stop and rest. Before they had stood an instant, they were startled by a loud report of a pistol coming from the floor above them. With a loud scream, Mabel sped up the remaining stairs and entered the room named by the concierge. Mr Merton came almost instantly after her, and found Wilfred lying insensible on the floor, and Mabel kneeling by his side, trying to restore consciousness. CHAPTER V.--SAVED. Within an hour, two of the most skilful physicians that Paris could boast were with Wilfred Merton. And when they left him, their verdict was not one to give much hope. He had shot himself in the chest, and it was very doubtful whether he would recover from that fearful self-inflicted wound.