"And now, if the Herr will go to his hotel, all Vienna shall be searched. The passport cannot be lost, and in a few hours it shall be in his hands." Free! It was the only time I was ever under lock and key, but I shall never forget the exhilarating delight of that moment. I had hardly gone twenty rods when I remembered that the boat left at five o'clock, and I thought that I would return and tell the commissaire to hurry up. As I opened the door of the bureau I saw him deliberately take from a pigeon-hole my passport, and handing it to the agent, say, "Here, take this stupid Englishman his passport!" "Sir," I said, stepping forward, "I will relieve you of the trouble." Not a blush, not an apology. With a profusion of compliments and hopes for my _bon voyage_, the commisaaire graciously bowed me out, and with all haste I sought the Hotel d'Hollande. The fiacre was just driving up to the door as I arrived. I saw it all in one moment. _The boy was not there._ I questioned the driver and passengers. It appeared that Jules had left the carriage shortly after my departure, and as three hours had elapsed before their return to Vienna, they concluded that he had joined me. My excitement threw the landlord into a further convulsion of hand-rubbing and general perplexity. "Get me a strong saddle horse," I impetuously demanded. "It shall be at the door in five minutes. Will not the Herr dine before he leaves?" "Dine! No; but let me have a flask of brandy." Out through the paved streets to the plain. I scoured the whole country round, peered into every carriage, searched every bush and brier, rode up and down the neighboring lanes and highways, inquired of all I met, and only trotted back to Vienna when darkness came on and my jaded horse could hardly bear me home. Then I ate and drank, and, taking a caleche, visited every police station and hospital in Vienna. All in vain; and at three o'clock in the morning I threw myself on my bed to snatch a few hours' sleep ere my search should be again renewed. I will not dwell upon the horrors of that time. Day succeeded day, and nearly a week passed in my frantic efforts to discover the whereabouts of the poor young Hungarian. How my heart bled for the gentle boy, perhaps languishing in an Austrian dungeon and calling on the good Englishman to rescue him. I lived a year in that week. At last I resolved to telegraph to M. Danneris. "Jules is lost. For God's sake, come at once," flashed along the wires. The answer was equally terse. The operator at Brussels replied, "Danneris gone. Left no address." Was ever anything so unfortunate? Ah, yes, he did talk of visiting England, and that was the reason he could not himself escort Jules home. Then I knew that I must brace my nerves to the terrible effort of telling that poor father that his child was lost; that I, by my cursed carelessness, had been the destroyer of his peace. "Your son has mysteriously disappeared from my charge. Hasten here."