This was the letter that Vernon read standing in the shadow of the arch by the concierge's window. The concierge had hailed him as he hurried through to climb the wide shallow stairs and to keep his appointment with Betty when she should leave the atelier. "But yes, Mademoiselle had departed this morning at nine o'clock. To which station? To the Gare St. Lazare. Yes--Mademoiselle had charged her to remit the billet to Monsieur. No, Mademoiselle had not left any address. But perhaps chez Madame Bianchi?" But chez Madame Bianchi there was no further news. The so amiable Mademoiselle Desmond had paid her account, had embraced Madame, and--Voila! she was gone. One divined that she had been called suddenly to return to the family roof. A sudden illness of Monsieur her father without doubt. Could some faint jasmine memory have lingered on the staircase? Or was it some subtler echo of Lady St. Craye's personality that clung there? Abruptly, as he passed Betty's door, the suspicion stung him. Had the Jasmine lady had any hand in this sudden departure? "Pooh--nonsense!" he said. But all the same he paused at the concierge's window. "I am desolated to have deranged Madame,"--gold coin changed hands.--"A lady came to see Mademoiselle this morning, is it not?" "No, no lady had visited Mademoiselle to-day: no one at all in effect." "Nor last night--very late?" "No, monsieur," the woman answered meaningly; "no visitor came in last night except Monsieur himself and he came, not to see Mademoiselle, that understands itself, but to see Monsieur Beauchèsne an troisième. No--I am quite sure--I never deceive myself. And Mademoiselle has had no letters since three days. Thanks a thousand times, Monsieur. Good morning." She locked up the gold piece in the little drawer where already lay the hundred franc note that Lady St. Craye had given her at six o'clock that morning. "And there'll be another fifty from her next month," she chuckled. "The good God be blessed for intrigues! Without intrigues what would become of us poor concierges?" For Vernon Paris was empty--the spring sunshine positively distasteful. He did what he could; he enquired at the Gare St. Lazare, describing Betty with careful detail that brought smiles to the lips of the employés. He would not call on Miss Voscoe. He made himself wait till the Sketch Club afternoon--made himself wait, indeed, till all the sketches were criticised--till the last cup of tea was swallowed, or left to cool--the last cake munched--the last student's footfall had died away on the stairs, and he and Miss Voscoe were alone among the scattered tea-cups, blackened bread-crumbs and torn paper. Then he put his question. Miss Voscoe knew nothing. Guessed Miss Desmond knew her own business best. "But she's so young," said Vernon; "anything might have happened to her." "I reckon she's safe enough--where she is," said Miss Voscoe with intention.