"
I looked at him with elevated eyebrows. I knew no Madame in Paris.
"I think there is some mistake," I said.
"But why? Monsieur Eeltone? Numero quinze, is it not?"
"Hilton. Yes, that is my name."
He gave me a triumphant glance, and handed me the note with a
flourish. The envelope was that of the Grand Hotel; but the writing
on it was Lucia's writing. Lucia here in Paris! Close to me! How?
Why? The blood poured over my face. With a sense of delight I tore
the envelope open:--
"I am at the above hotel. I shall remain at home all to-day in the
hope that you may be able to come and see me."
"LUCIA."
I looked up the man in the doorway bowed with a deprecating air.
"Madame said I was to wait for an answer."
He had a subdued smile upon his face, which seemed to say--"We know
all about these little notes! We are accustomed to them here in
Paris!"
I told him to enter, and he followed me into the room and took an
interested glance round. Probably, to his view, my pallid face and
blood-shot eyes, my last night's clothes, my boots on my feet, and
the bed unslept-in, conveyed the idea of a drunken fit only just
over in time to make room for the morning's intrigue. A young,
beautiful English madame--for the title Miss is barely recognised,
never understood in Paris--staying at the hotel and sending notes to
a young English M'sieur in another.
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