"Madame," said he, "in spite of the war, the telegraphic, telephonic, and municipal systems of France work in perfect order--to say nothing of that of the police. Frelus, I think, is the name of the place she started from?" At eight o'clock in the evening, after her lonely dinner in the great hotel, the polite official called again. She met him in the lounge. "Madame," said he, "I have the pleasure to inform you that Mademoiselle Jeanne Bossiere, late of Frelus, is living in Paris at 743^bis Boulevard Port Royal, and spends all her days at the succursale of the French Red Cross in the Rue Vaugirard." "Have you seen her and told her?" "No, madame, that did not come within my instructions." "I am infinitely grateful to you," said Peggy. "_Il n'y a pas de quoi_, madame. I perform the tasks assigned to me and am only too happy, in this case, to have been successful." "But, monsieur," said Peggy, feeling desperately lonely in Paris, and pathetically eager to talk to a human being, even in her rusty Vevey school French, "haven't you wondered why I've been so anxious to find this young lady?" "If we began to wonder," he replied with a laugh, "at the things which happen during the war, we should be so bewildered that we shouldn't be able to carry on our work. Madame," said he, handing her his card, "if you should have further need of me in the matter, I am always at your service." He bowed profoundly and left her. Peggy stayed at the Ritz because, long ago, when her parents had fetched her from Vevey and had given her the one wonderful fortnight in Paris she had ever known, they had chosen this dignified and not inexpensive hostelry. To her girlish mind it had breathed the last word of splendour, movement, gaiety--all that was connoted by the magical name of the City of Light. But now the glamour had departed. She wondered whether it had ever been. Oliver had laughed at her experiences. Sandwiched between dear old Uncle Edward and Aunt Sophia, what in the sacred name of France could she have seen of Paris? Wait till they could turn round. He would take her to Paris. She would have the unimagined time of her life. They dreamed dreams of the Rue de la Paix--he had five hundred pounds laid by, which he had ear-marked for an orgy of shopping in that Temptation Avenue of a thoroughfare; of Montmartre, the citadel of delectable wickedness and laughter; of funny little restaurants in dark streets where you are delighted to pay twenty francs for a mussel, so exquisitely is it cooked; of dainty and crazy theatres; of long drives, folded in each other's arms, when moonlight touches dawn, through the wonders of the enchanted city.