“Well, at last!” sighed my sister, as her car, colourless with dust, was added to the forty-eight. I had been in Europe for four months, had lately joined some friends at Cannes, had chanced on my sister there, and had motored back with her to Paris. We were foul with dust, numbed with cold, aching with tiredness, and this was because we had “done” the six hundred odd miles from Cannes in two days and a few hours. The devil was in it if there was any reason why we should not have taken three days, or four, or five. But, then, why do people say “’phone” for “telephone”? Thus, they get an illusion of speed. We went into the hotel. The long, narrow, crimson lounge was crowded with tea-drinkers. “But what a crowd of women!” said my sister. But there were quite a few people in men’s clothes. _Au Réception._ “I-want-a-room-and-bathroom-please,” my sister said. “_Madame?_” The dark-suited gentlemen of the _Réception_ looked up from their desks at my sister, saw that her clothes were not bad and that she was in a hurry, and looked away again. My sister repeated herself, in that dead and faintly aggressive tone in which women ask for what is very probably going to be denied them. “I wired,” she added. Liar. I went towards the concierge’s box. He was a nice man, and had a white imperial. “Is Mrs. Storm staying in the hotel?” “Sir?” “Could you tell me if Mrs. Storm is----” “No, sir, no, sir. Not at present, sir.” “I thought that, as her car was outside.... A yellow Hispano.” “That is so, sir. _Parfaitement. L’Hispano jaune._” “But Mrs. Storm, you say, is not in the hotel?” “No, sir. Not at present, sir.” “Then, perhaps you may know, she has sold or lent her car to some one?” “That is so, sir. Madame _a prêté l’Hispano. Merci, monsieur._” “You couldn’t possibly give me any idea of Mrs. Storm’s present address?” “_Pardon, monsieur.... Timbre, monseigneur? De quinze centimes, un. Merci, monseigneur. L’automobile à huit heures moins quart? Parfaitement, monseigneur...._ I have no instructions, sir. That was the gentleman to whom madame has lent her motor. _Le due de Valaucourt._” “Thank you. But Mrs. Storm, you say, is in Paris?” “Sir? _Je suis sans instructions, monsieur. Madame?_” “What is it, what is it?” asked my sister. “Nothing,” I said. “Got a room? Good. I am going to the Westminster, and I’ll come at half-past eight, shall I, and take you out to dinner?” “Yes, but not here. It’s crowded with minor royalties that you can’t stand with your back to any one except the orchestra. Larue?” She had no sooner turned towards the lift than my name was cried in an agony of exultation. My sister says that my face as I started round was a face of fear.