I thanked him but I declined the offer, so far as the Folies were concerned. I did ask him, however, to give me the name of a few churches at which ladies sang. This he did and I set out to find them, in a cab which whizzed through the Paris streets as if the driver was bent upon suicide and manslaughter.

I visited four places of worship that afternoon and two more that evening. Those in charge--for I attended no services--knew nothing of Mademoiselle Junotte or Juno. I retired at ten, somewhat discouraged, but stubbornly determined to keep on, for my three days at least.

The next morning I consulted Baedeker again, this time for the list of hotels, a list which I found quite as lengthy as that of the churches.

Then I once more sought the help of Monsieur Louis. Could he tell me a few of the hotels where English visitors were most likely to stay.

He could do more than that, apparently. Would I be so good as to inform him if the lady or gentleman--being Parisian he put the lady first--whom I wished to find had recently arrived in Paris. I told him that the gentleman had arrived the same evening as I. Whereupon he produced a list of guests at all the prominent hotels. Herbert Bayliss was registered at the Continental.

To the Continental I went and made inquiries of the concierge there.

Mr. Bayliss was there, he was in his room, so the concierge believed. He would be pleased to ascertain. Would I give my name? I declined to give the name, saying that I did not wish to disturb Mr. Bayliss. If he was in his room I would wait until he came down. He was in his room, had not yet breakfasted, although it was nearly ten in the forenoon. I sat down in a chair from which I could command a good view of the elevators, and waited.

The concierge strolled over and chatted. Was I a friend of Mr. Bayliss?

Ah, a charming young gentleman, was he not. This was not his first visit to Paris, no indeed; he came frequently--though not as frequently of late--and he invariably stayed at the Continental. He had been out late the evening before, which doubtless explained his non-appearance. Ah, he was breakfasting now; had ordered his "cafe complete." Doubtless he would be down very soon? Would I wish to send up my name now?

Again I declined, to the polite astonishment of the concierge, who evidently considered me a queer sort of a friend. He was called to his desk by a guest, who wished to ask questions, of course, and I waited where I was. At a quarter to eleven Herbert Bayliss emerged from the elevator.

His appearance almost shocked me. Out late the night before! He looked as if he had been out all night for many nights. He was pale and solemn.

I stepped forward to greet him and the start he gave when he saw me was evidence of the state of his nerves. I had never thought of him as possessing any nerves.

"Eh? Why, Knowles!" he exclaimed.

"Good morning, Bayliss," said I.

We both were embarrassed, he more than I, for I had expected to see him and he had not expected to see me. I made a move to shake hands but he did not respond. His manner toward me was formal and, I thought, colder than it had been at our meeting the day of the golf tournament.

"I called," I said, "to see you, Bayliss. If you are not engaged I should like to talk with you for a few moments."

His answer was a question.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked.

"I saw your name in the list of recent arrivals at the Continental," I answered.

"I mean how did you know I was in Paris?"

"I didn't know. I thought I caught a glimpse of you on the boat. I was almost sure it was you, but you did not appear to recognize me and I had no opportunity to speak then."

He did not speak at once, he did not even attempt denial of having seen and recognized me during the Channel crossing. He regarded me intently and, I thought, suspiciously.

"Who sent you here?" he asked, suddenly.

"Sent me! No one sent me. I don't understand you."

"Why did you follow me?"

"Follow you?"

"Yes. Why did you follow me to Paris? No one knew I was coming here, not even my own people. They think I am--Well, they don't know that I am here."

His speech and his manner were decidedly irritating. I had made a firm resolve to keep my temper, no matter what the result of this interview might be, but I could not help answering rather sharply.

"I had no intention of following you--here or anywhere else," I said.

"Your action and whereabouts, generally speaking, are of no particular interest to me. I did not follow you to Paris, Doctor Bayliss."

He reddened and hesitated. Then he led the way to a divan in a retired corner of the lobby and motioned to me to be seated. There he sat down beside me and waited for me to speak. I, in turn, waited for him to speak.

At last he spoke.

"I'm sorry, Knowles," he said. "I am not myself today. I've had a devil of a night and I feel like a beast this morning. I should probably have insulted my own father, had he appeared suddenly, as you did. Of course I should have known you did not follow me to Paris. But--but why did you come?"

I hesitated now. "I came," I said, "to--to--Well, to be perfectly honest with you, I came because of something I heard concerning--concerning--"

He interrupted me. "Then Heathcroft did tell you!" he exclaimed. "I thought as much."

"He told you, I know. He said he did."

"Yes. He did. My God, man, isn't it awful! Have you seen her?"

His manner convinced me that he had seen her. In my eagerness I forgot to be careful.

"No," I answered, breathlessly; "I have not seen her. Where is she?"

He turned and stared at me.

"Don't you know where she is?" he asked, slowly.

"I know nothing. I have been told that she--or someone very like her--is singing in a Paris church. Heathcroft told me that and then we were interrupted. I--What is the matter?"

He was staring at me more oddly than ever. There was the strangest expression on his face.

"In a church!" he repeated. "Heathcroft told you--"

"He told me that he had seen a girl, whose resemblance to Miss Morley was so striking as to be marvelous, singing in a Paris church. He called it an abbey, but of course it couldn't be that. Do you know anything more definite? What did he tell you?"

He did not answer.

"In a church!" he said again. "You thought--Oh, good heavens!"

He began to laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh to hear. Moreover, it angered me.

"This may be very humorous," I said, brusquely. "Perhaps it is--to you.

But--Bayliss, you know more of this than I. I am certain now that you do. I want you to tell me what you know. Is that girl Frances Morley?

Have you seen her? Where is she?"

He had stopped laughing. Now he seemed to be considering.

"Then you did come over here to find her," he said, more slowly still.

"You were following her, why?"