"We have no gentleman of that name here, sir," replied the smart reception clerk, referring to his list. "He hasn't arrived yet, I expect. A lady was asking for a Mr. Pennington yesterday--a French lady." "You don't know the name, then?" He replied in the negative. "No doubt he is expected, if the lady called to see him?" "No doubt, sir. Perhaps he'll be here to-day." And with that, I was compelled to turn disappointed away. I wandered into the restaurant, and there ate my lunch alone. The place was crowded, as it always is, mostly by people interested in cotton and its products, for it is, perhaps, one of the most cosmopolitan hotels in the whole kingdom. Sick of the chatter and clatter of the place, I paid my bill and passed out into the big smoking-lounge to take my coffee and liqueur and idle over the newspaper. I was not quite certain whether to remain there the night and watch for Pennington's arrival, or to return to London. As a matter of fact, so certain had I been of finding him that I had not brought a suit-case. I suppose I had been in the lounge half-an-hour or so, when I looked up, and then, to my surprise, saw Pennington, smartly dressed, and looking very spruce for his years, crossing from the bureau with a number of letters in his hand. It was apparent that he had just received them from the mail-clerk. And yet I had been told that he was not staying there! I held my paper in such position as to conceal my face while I watched his movements. He halted, opened a telegram, and read it eagerly. Then, crushing it in his hand with a gesture of annoyance, he thrust it into his jacket pocket. He was dressed in a smart dark grey suit, which fitted him perfectly, a grey soft felt hat, while his easy manner and bearing were those of a gentleman of wealth and leisure. He held a cigar between his fingers, and, walking slowly as he opened one of the letters, he presently threw himself into one of the big arm-chairs near me, and became absorbed in his correspondence. There was a waste-paper basket near, and into this he tossed something as valueless. One of the letters evidently caused him considerable annoyance, for, removing his hat, he passed his hand slowly over his bald head as he sat staring at it in mystification. Then he rang the bell, and ordered something from a waiter. A liqueur of brandy was brought, and, tossing it off at a gulp, he rose, wrote a telegram at the table near him, and went quickly out. After he had gone I also rose, and, without attracting attention, crossed, took up another paper, and then seated myself in the chair he had vacated. My eye was upon the waste-paper basket, and when no one was looking I reached out and took therefrom a crumpled blue envelope--the paper he had flung away. Smoothing it out, I found that it was not addressed to him, but to "Arnold Du Cane, Esq., Travellers' Club, Paris," and had been re-directed to this hotel. This surprised me.