All through the dark months Ernie had only caught an occasional glimpse of Ruth. Now he lost sight of her entirely. One afternoon Céleste stopped him on the Third Floor. She looked at him curiously, with a touch of gauche diffidence he had never marked in her before. "Was you very fond of her then, Ernie?" she asked quietly. "Who?" he inquired, surprised. "Ruth." Ernie stared at her. "What's happened?" "She's gone." "When?" "Some time since. Afore Christmas." He saw that Céleste, the kindest of creatures, was genuinely moved. She turned her back, and moved to the window, biting her handkerchief to restrain her tears. "Of course she'd no business here at all," she sobbed. "She was an innocent. She didn't know nothing. If she'd mixed with us girls we could anyway have learned her enough to keep her out of trouble. But she was that proud. Kept herself to herself." Ernie devoured her with dark eyes. "Where's she gone?" he asked. "London, I expect," Céleste answered. "They always do." The flighty little creature dried her eyes and spread her wings in the sun once more. "Poor old Ern!" she cried. "But there's better fish in the sea than ever came out of it, as the sayin is.... I'm not aimin at meself, mind!" she added coquettishly. Ernie, if he heard her badinage, ignored it. As always, where his heart was concerned, he struck instantly and without fear. He walked along the corridor and knocked at Madame's door. She was, as usual, smoking. "What is it, Caspar?" she asked kindly. Ernie came to the point with almost brutal directness. "Ruth Boam, 'm." Madame studied her rings. "She has left--while I was gone away," she said after a pause. "I am sorry. She was nice gurl." Madame had only just returned from her annual visit to the sister-hotel at Brussels. "Could you tell me where she's gone, 'm?" Quite suddenly her large fair face wrought. She rose out of the cloud of her own smoke, and just as Céleste had done a few minutes before, went to the window and looked out. Her great shoulders heaved. "I don't know," she said. "She has not gone home to Aldwoldston. I haf written." Then with an astonishing display of emotion: "That man!" she cried. "I will never haf that man in my Hotels any mores." Ernie retired, seeking and dissatisfied. The news of his search soon spread. In the boot-room next day, when the men were at their "Elevens," Don John met him with a jeer as he entered. "Don't he know then?" mocked the Austrian. "Know what?" asked Ernie. "Where she's gone?" Ernie put down his bread and cheese. "Where has she gone, then?" "Queen Charlotte's, Marylebone." "What's Queen Charlotte's?" asked Ernie, the simple. A rumble of cruel laughter went round the room. "Layin-in hospital," said Don John, "for English gurls the Chairman Jews have sported with." Ernie rose. Very deliberately he took off his apron.