"Will you kindly see that Mrs. Heron has this note?"

"Madame Heron left to-day, Monsieur--suddenly, about three o'clock.

There was illness in her family."

Soames compressed his lips. "Oh!" he said; "do you know her address?"

"Non, Monsieur. England, I think."

Soames put the note back into his pocket and went out. He hailed an open

horse-cab which was passing.

"Drive me anywhere!"

The man, who, obviously, did not understand, smiled, and waved his whip.

And Soames was borne along in that little yellow-wheeled Victoria all

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over star-shaped Paris, with here and there a pause, and the question,

"C'est par ici, Monsieur?" "No, go on," till the man gave it up in

despair, and the yellow-wheeled chariot continued to roll between the

tall, flat-fronted shuttered houses and plane-tree avenues--a little

Flying Dutchman of a cab.

'Like my life,' thought Soames, 'without object, on and on!'




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