“Well,” exclaimed the latter, “you didn’t see our friends off.” “What friends?” “The Incouls of course; didn’t you know that they had gone?” Lenox looked at him blankly. “Gone,” he echoed. “Yes, they must have sent you word. Incoul seemed to expect you. They have gone up to Paris. If I had known beforehand--” Mr. Blydenburg rambled on, but Lenox no longer listened. It was for this then that he had been bothering himself the entire day. The abruptness of the departure mystified him, yet he comforted himself with the thought that had there been anything abnormal, it could not have escaped Blydenburg’s attention. “And you say they expected me?” he asked at last. “Yes, they seemed to. Incoul left good-bye for you. When you get to Paris look them up.” While he was speaking May came out from the tobacconist’s. “I will do so,” Lenox said, and with a parting nod he joined his friend. As he walked on down the road to the Casino, Mr. Blydenburg looked musingly after him. He would not be a bad match for Milly, he told himself, not a bad match at all; and thinking that perhaps it might be but a question of bringing the two young people together, he presently started off in search of his daughter and led her, lamb-like, to the Casino. But once there he felt instinctively that for that evening at least any bringing together of the young people was impossible. Lenox was engaged in an animated conversation with a conspicuously dressed lady, whom, Mr. Blydenburg learned on inquiry, was none other than the notorious Mlle. Mirette, of the Théâtre National de l’Opéra. CHAPTER XI. THE HOUSE IN THE PARC MONCEAU. There had been a crash in Wall street. Two of the best houses had gone under. Of one of these the senior partner had had recourse to the bare bodkin. For several years previous his wife had dispensed large hospitality from a charming hôtel just within the gates of the Parc Monceau. At the news of her ruined widowhood she fled from Paris. In a week it was only her creditors that remembered her. The hôtel was sold under the hammer. A speculator bought it and while waiting a chance to sell it again at a premium, offered it for rent, fully furnished, as it stood. This by the way. After the dinner in Spain, Mr. Incoul passed some time in thought. The next morning he sent for Karl, and after a consultation with him, he went to the square that overhangs the sea, entered the telegraph office, found a blank, wrote a brief message, and after attending to its despatch, returned to the villa. His wife was in the library, and as he entered the room the _maître d’hôtel_ announced that their excellencies were served. Maida had never been more bewildering in her beauty. Her lips were moist, and under her polar-blue eyes were the faintest of semicircles. “Did you enjoy your trip to Fuenterrabia?” she asked. “Exceedingly,” he answered. But he did not enter into details and the breakfast was done before either of them spoke again.