asleep on his bed, worn out with the anxiety and the watching.
You ask me what I was going to do—I'll tell you in a word. I meant to go to the Hotel Métropole and ask for King's address. I thought I would wire to him, or find out, at any rate, exactly when he was returning. As the thing went, however, I did neither, for whom should I see, directly I entered the great hall of the hotel, but King's daughter—the pretty little American girl I had remarked in Paris. There she was, sitting alone at a tea table, a perfect little picture. And two minutes after I saw her she was listening to my story.
"You'll excuse me, miss," said I, "but is Mr. King likely to be in Vienna again soon?"
"Indeed he is not," said she, with a pretty, rippling laugh. "I am afraid he won't be here again at all; he is going straight from Mostar, where he is now, to Trieste. I join him at Venice." If she had struck me, she couldn't have made me reel like her words did.
"Going to Trieste!" exclaimed I, doing my best to hide what I felt; "but he's taking Sir Nicolas Steele's great diamond with him, then?"
She laughed again, appearing to enjoy ray confusion.
"Certainly he is," she said; "but he is leaving the money for it behind him. I have just sent round a draft on the Bank of Vienna."
"You have sent a draft?" I almost shouted, forgetting every thing in the excitement of it.
