been known to them before the Telegraph had gone to press.
"Was M. Delacroix alone at this hotel?" I asked breathlessly. The proprietor seemed to be taken aback at my excitement—for a moment only, however.
"M. Delacroix came to this house some weeks ago," he said. "He was accompanied by a young gentleman, un charmant garçon, who occupied a room adjoining his, and—"
"Go on," I cried, frantically.
"He is still here."
"Ah!" This exclamation escaped me; I could not help giving it utterance. "I will go up to his room," I said, trying to quiet my throbbing pulses. I felt that I could not move. Now that I knew Arthur was here, I hated to see him; to confess, by this interview, that I understood his unhappy life. I made a mighty effort, however, and was ready, when the proprietor told me that the apartment was the first room to the right, on the second floor, to seek it.
I slowly ascended the uneven, miserably carpeted staircase. Not a soul did I meet. If there
