Thus weeks crept on, and as disappointment followed disappointment in their search, Minnie grew saddened and uneasy; still, every day she rejoiced that she bore her trouble alone, and that Miles was exempt. Poor creature! she did not perceive that her unexplained, altered manner, was making him once again most unhappy. Doubts, fears, suspicions of all, arose in his mind, and he began to ask himself, "Could Burton be in Paris, and at some fiendish plot?" He resolved to verify this doubt by inquiry. He went to several of the principal hotels, without success. No such name was on their books; then, as a man perfectly acquainted with Paris and its habits, he went to the passport office, and searched; he was on the point of leaving, perfectly assured no Burton was in Paris, consequently it must be something else preying upon her mind and directing her actions, when a woman's figure flitted through the office, closely enveloped and veiled. But it was Minnie, and none other; for the second time, she had come to the prefecture to seek d'Estrées. Miles stood transfixed with surprise. Whom could she be seeking? Quietly he stole after her; without turning, she entered a _fiacre_ and drove away. This was a day on which he was supposed to be engaged at the Louvre. He stood irresolute a moment, then, walking composedly back again, commenced a search after another passport and name--the act was the offspring of a moment's thought. "Yes, monsieur," answered the functionary, rather more civilly than these men generally speak in all public offices in France; "the gentleman, _ce milord_, is in Paris, I know--I remember the name--ah! here's the passport, and address, _Rue Castiglione_ 7," and he gave the shuddering Tremenhere _his own address_.