"No," said Sylvia, quickly, "the letter was not sent to me; it was left by my friend in her bed-room at the Pension Malfait. You see, the strange thing, Monsieur, is that Madame Wolsky left all her luggage. She took absolutely nothing with her, excepting, of course, her money. And as yet nothing has come from her, although she promised to telegraph where her luggage was to be sent on to her! I come to you because I am afraid that she had met with some accident in the Paris streets, and I thought you would be able to telephone for us to the Paris Police."
She looked very piteously at the French official, and his face softened, a kindly look came over it.
"Well, Madame," he said, "I will certainly do everything I can. But I must ask you to provide me first with a few more particulars about your friend."
"I will tell you everything I know. But I really do not know very much."
"Her age?" said the Commissioner.
"I do not know her age, but I suppose she is about thirty."
"The place of her birth?"
Sylvia shook her head.
"What is her permanent address? Surely you know with whom you could communicate the news of an accident having happened to her?"
"I am afraid I don't even know that." Sylvia began to feel rather foolish. But—but was it so strange after all? Who among the people she was now living with knew anything of her far-away English home? If anything happened to herself, for instance? Even Count
