Francis went back to his own hotel, wondering what the events of the next day would bring forth. A new turn in his affairs had taken place in his absence. As he crossed the hall, he was requested by one of the servants to walk into the private office. The manager was waiting there with a gravely pre-occupied manner, as if he had something serious to say. He regretted to hear that Mr. Francis Westwick had, like other members of the family, discovered serious sources of discomfort in the new hotel. He had been informed in strict confidence of Mr. Westwick’s extraordinary objection to the atmosphere of the bedroom upstairs. Without presuming to discuss the matter, he must beg to be excused from reserving the room for Mr. Westwick after what had happened. Francis answered sharply, a little ruffled by the tone in which the manager had spoken to him. “I might, very possibly, have declined to sleep in the room, if you _had_ reserved it,” he said. “Do you wish me to leave the hotel?” The manager saw the error that he had committed, and hastened to repair it. “Certainly not, sir! We will do our best to make you comfortable while you stay with us. I beg your pardon, if I have said anything to offend you. The reputation of an establishment like this is a matter of very serious importance. May I hope that you will do us the great favour to say nothing about what has happened upstairs? The two French gentlemen have kindly promised to keep it a secret.” This apology left Francis no polite alternative but to grant the manager’s request. “There is an end to the Countess’s wild scheme,” he thought to himself, as he retired for the night. “So much the better for the Countess!” He rose late the next morning. Inquiring for his Parisian friends, he was informed that both the French gentlemen had left for Milan. As he crossed the hall, on his way to the restaurant, he noticed the head porter chalking the numbers of the rooms on some articles of luggage which were waiting to go upstairs. One trunk attracted his attention by the extraordinary number of old travelling labels left on it. The porter was marking it at the moment—and the number was, “13 A.” Francis instantly looked at the card fastened on the lid. It bore the common English name, “Mrs. James”! He at once inquired about the lady. She had arrived early that morning, and she was then in the Reading Room. Looking into the room, he discovered a lady in it alone. Advancing a little nearer, he found himself face to face with the Countess. She was seated in a dark corner, with her head down and her arms crossed over her bosom. “Yes,” she said, in a tone of weary impatience, before Francis could speak to her. “I thought it best not to wait for you—I determined to get here before anybody else could take the room.” “Have you taken it for long?” Francis asked. “You told me Miss Lockwood would be here in a week’s time. I have taken it for a week.” “What has Miss Lockwood to do with it?”