"No news as yet." Fresh messages were despatched at intervals of twelve hours, and in addition Tom sent long letters to "My dearest Tryphie." But all the same he was in a state of feverish excitement, while Lord Barmouth was reduced to imbecile helplessness, but ready to obey his son to the very letter, and trotting about after him through Paris like a faithful dog. They had been most unfortunate in their quest: they had succeeded in tracing the fugitives to Paris, and there they had been at fault. Twenty times over Viscount Diphoos had declared that they must have gone on somewhere; but the police said no, it was impossible. And so they went on wearily searching Paris, until his lordship declared his heel to be so sore that he could go no farther. "They must have left Paris," vowed Viscount Diphoos in one of the bureaux. "But, monsieur, it is not possible. Our cordon of spies is too perfect. No, my faith, they are still here. Have patience, monsieur, and you shall see." So the chief at each bureau; and so the days passed on, till the young man felt almost maddened and rabid with despair. These were the descriptions--"Young lady, fair, brown hair, blue eyes, pale, rather thin face, tall and graceful; her companion, a tall, swarthy Italian, with black curly hair and beard." But descriptions were all in vain, and when, regularly fagged out, Viscount Diphoos sat at his hotel, smoking his cigar, he would let it go out, and then heedless sit on, nibbling and gnawing at the end till he had bitten it to pieces, and still no ideas came. "I'll shoot the scoundrel, that I will," he muttered aloud one evening. "No, don't do that, Tom," said Lord Barmouth, feebly. "But don't you think we had better go home?" "No," said Tom, snappishly; "I don't, sir. Let's see what to-morrow brings forth." "Letters for messieurs," said a waiter, handing some correspondence from London; but there was no news worthy of note. "Here, stop a minute, _garcon_," said Tom, drawing a note and his sister's photograph from his pocket-book. "Look here, this is an English five-pound note." "Oh, yais, monsieur, I know--_billet de banc_?" "And this is the carte of a lady we wish to find in Paris, you understand?" The man nodded his closely cropped head, smiled, and, after a long look at the carte, left the room. "You seem to pin a good deal of faith to five-pound notes, Tom," said Lord Barmouth. "Yes," said his son, shortly. "Like 'em here." The next day he sent for the waiter, but was informed that the man had gone out for a holiday. "I thought so," said Tom, enthusiastically, as soon as they were alone. "That fellow will go and see all the waiters he knows at the different hotels, and find out what we want." Viscount Diphoos was quite right. About ten o'clock that evening the waiter entered, and beckoned to them, mysteriously-- "Alaright," he said, "ze leddee is trouvee. I have ze fiacre at ze door."