He came down soon afterward. I had not seen him for a fortnight, for his calls had ceased even before Frances' last visit. Hephzy had said that, in her opinion, his meals must be disagreeing with him. Judging by his appearance his digestion was still very much impaired. He was in evening dress, of course; being an English gentleman he would have dressed for his own execution, if it was scheduled to take place after six o'clock. But his tie was carelessly arranged, his shirt bosom was slightly crumpled and there was a general “don't care” look about his raiment which was, for him, most unusual. And he was very solemn. I decided at once, whatever might have happened, it was not what I surmised. He was neither a happy bridegroom nor a prospective one. “Good evening, Bayliss,” said I, and extended my hand. “Good evening, Knowles,” he said, but he kept his own hands in his pockets. And he did not ask me to be seated. “Well?” he said, after a moment. “I came to you,” I began--mine was a delicate errand and hard to state--“I came to you to ask if you could tell me where Miss Morley has gone. She has left L'Abbaye and has given up her room at her lodgings. She has gone--somewhere. Do you know where she is?” It was quite evident that he did know. I could see it in his face. He did not answer, however. Instead he glanced about uneasily and then, turning, led the way toward a small reception room adjoining the lobby. This room was, save for ourselves, unoccupied. “We can be more private here,” he explained, briefly. “What did you ask?” “I asked if you knew where Miss Morley had gone and where she was at the present time?” He hesitated, pulling at his mustache, and frowning. “I don't see why you should ask me that?” he said, after a moment. “But I do ask it. Do you know where she is?” Another pause. “Well, if I did,” he said, stiffly, “I see no reason why I should tell you. To be perfectly frank, and as I have said to you before, I don't consider myself bound to tell you anything concerning her.” His manner was most offensive. Again, as at the time I came to him at that very hotel on a similar errand, after my arrival in Paris, I found it hard to keep my temper. “Don't misunderstand me,” I said, as calmly as I could. “I am not pretending now to have a claim upon Miss Morley. I am not asking you to tell me just where she is, if you don't wish to tell. And it is not for my sake--that is, not primarily for that--that I am anxious about her. It is for hers. I wish you might tell me this: Is she safe? Is she among friends? Is she--is she quite safe and in a respectable place and likely to be happy? Will you tell me that?” He hesitated again. “She is quite safe,” he said, after a moment. “And she is among friends, or I suppose they are friends. As to her being happy--well, you ought to know that better than I, it seems to me.” I was puzzled. “_I_ ought to know?” I repeated. “I ought to know whether she is happy or not? I don't understand.”