Paris claims to be the centre of the world, and if it be, the world has a very good centre. Anyhow Paris becomes, from this moment, the centre of this drama. Not only was Arthur Laing being whirled there by the Nice express, and Miss Bussey's party proceeding thither by the eleven o'clock train from Victoria--Mary laughed as she thought it might have been her honeymoon she was starting on--but the Bellairs and their friends were heading for the same point. Miss Bussey's party had the pleasanter journey; they were all of one mind; Miss Bussey was eager to reach Paris because it was the end of the journey; John and Mary desired nothing but the moment when with trembling fingers they should tear open their telegrams in the hall of the hotel. The expedition from the south did not enjoy a like unanimity; but before following their steps we may, in the interest of simplicity, land the first detachment safely at its destination. When Mary and John, followed by Miss Bussey--they outstripped her in their eagerness--entered the hotel, a young man with an eye-glass was just engaging a bedroom. John took his place beside the stranger, and asked in a voice, which he strove to render calm, if there were any letters for----. "Beg pardon, sir. In one moment," said the clerk, and he added to Laing, "Number 37, sir." Laing--Oh, the irony of things!--turned on John and his companion just that one supercilious glance which we bestow on other tourists, and followed his baggage upstairs. "Anything," resumed John, "for Miss Travers or Mr. Ashforth?" And he succeeded in looking as if he did not care a straw whether there were or not. After a search the porter answered, "Nothing, sir." "What?" exclaimed John, aghast? "Oh, nonsense, look again." Another search followed; it was without result. John saw Mary's appealing eyes fixed on him. "Nothing," he said tragically. "Oh, John!" "Have you taken the rooms, Mr. Ash forth?" inquired Miss Bussey. "No. I'm sorry. I forgot all about them." Miss Bussey was tired; she had been seasick, and the train always made her feel queer. "Has neither of you got an ounce of wits about you?" she demanded, and plunged forward to the desk. John and Mary received their numbers in gloomy silence, and mounted the stairs. Now Arthur Laing in his hasty survey of the party had arrived at a not unnatural but wholly erroneous conclusion. He had seen a young man, rather nervous, a young woman, looking anxious and shy, and an elderly person, plainly dressed (Miss Bussey was no dandy) sitting (Miss Bussey always sat as soon as she could) on, a trunk. He took John and Mary for a newly married couple, and Miss Bussey for an old family servant detailed to look after her young mistress's entry into independent housekeeping. "More infernal honeymooners," he said to himself, as he washed his hands. "The place is always full of 'em. Girl wasn't bad-looking, though."