A Maker of History. E. Phillips Oppenheim

Write to me by return.

      "Yours in great trouble and distress,

      "Phyllis Poynton."

      She sealed and addressed her letter, and saw it despatched. Afterwards she crossed the courtyard to the restaurant, and did her best to eat some dinner. When she had finished it was only half-past eight. She rang for the lift and ascended to the fourth floor. On her way down the corridor a sudden thought struck her. She took a key from her pocket and entered the room which her brother had occupied.

      His things were still lying about in some disorder, and neither of his trunks was locked. She went down on her knees and calmly proceeded to go through his belongings. It was rather a forlorn hope, but it seemed to her just possible that there might be in some of his pockets a letter which would throw light upon his disappearance. She found nothing of the sort, however. There were picture postcards, a few photographs, and a good many restaurant bills, but they were all from places in Germany and Austria. At the bottom of the second trunk, however, she found something which he had evidently considered it worth while to preserve carefully. It was a thick sheet of official-looking paper, bearing at the top an embossed crown, and covered with German writing. It was numbered at the top "seventeen," and it was evidently an odd sheet of some document. She folded it carefully up, and took it back with her to her own room. Then, with the help of a German dictionary, she commenced to study it. At the end of an hour she had made out a rough translation, which she read carefully through. When she had finished she was thoroughly perplexed. She had an uncomfortable sense of having come into touch with something wholly unexpected and mysterious.

      "What am I to do?" she said to herself softly.

      "What can it mean? Where on earth can Guy—have found this?"

      There was no one to answer her, no one to advise. An overwhelming sense of her own loneliness brought the tears into her eyes. She sat for some time with her face buried in her hands. Then she rose up, calmly destroyed her translation with minute care, and locked away the mysterious sheet at the bottom of her dressing-bag. The more she thought of it the less, after all, she felt inclined to connect it with his disappearance.

CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

      THE FALLING OF THE HANDKERCHIEF

      Monsieur Albert looked over her shoulder for the man who must surely be in attendance—but he looked in vain.

      "Mademoiselle wishes a table—for herself alone!" he repeated doubtfully.

      "If you please," she answered.

      It was obvious that Mademoiselle was of the class which does not frequent night cafés alone, but after all that was scarcely Monsieur Albert's concern. She came perhaps from that strange land of the free, whose daughters had long ago kicked over the barriers of sex with the same abandon that Mademoiselle Flossie would display the soles of her feet a few hours later in their national dance. If she had chanced to raise her veil no earthly persuasions on her part would have secured for her the freedom of that little room, for Monsieur Albert's appreciation of likeness was equal to his memory for faces. But it was not until she was comfortably ensconced at a corner table, from which she had a good view of the room, that she did so, and Monsieur Albert realized with a philosophic shrug of the shoulders the error he had committed.

      Phyllis looked about her with some curiosity. It was too early for the habitués of the place, and most of the tables were empty. The scarlet-coated band were smoking cigarettes, and had not yet produced their instruments. The conductor curled his black moustache and stared hard at the beautiful young English lady, without, however, being able to attract a single glance in return. One or two men also tried to convey to her by smiles and glances the fact that her solitude need continue no longer than she chose. The unattached ladies put their heads together and discussed her with little peals of laughter. To all of these things she remained indifferent. She ordered a supper which she ate mechanically, and wine which she scarcely drank. All the while she was considering. Now that she was here what could she do? Of whom was she to make inquiries? She scanned the faces of the newcomers with a certain grave curiosity which puzzled them. She neither invited nor repelled notice. She remained entirely at her ease.

      Monsieur Albert, during one of his peregrinations round the room, passed close to her table. She stopped him.

      "I trust that Mademoiselle is well served!" he remarked with a little bow.

      "Excellently, I thank you," she answered.

      He would have passed on, but she detained him.

      "You have very many visitors here," she remarked. "Is it the same always?"

      He smiled.

      "To-night," he declared, "it is nothing. There are many who come here every evening. They amuse themselves here."

      "You have a good many strangers also?" she asked.

      "But certainly," he declared. "All the time!"

      "I have a brother," she said, "who was here eleven nights ago—let me see—that would be last Tuesday week. He is tall and fair, about twenty-one, and they say like me. I wonder if you remember him."

      Monsieur Albert shook his head slowly.

      "That is strange," he declared, "for as a rule I forget no one. Last Tuesday week I remember perfectly well. It was a quiet evening. La Scala was here—but of the rest no one. If Mademoiselle's brother was here it is most strange."

      Her lip quivered for a moment. She was disappointed.

      "I am so sorry," she said. "I hoped that you might have been able to help me. He left the Grand Hotel on that night with the intention of coming here—and he never returned. I have been very much worried ever since."

      She was no great judge of character, but Monsieur Albert's sympathy did not impress her with its sincerity.

      "If Mademoiselle desires," he said, "I will make inquiries amongst the waiters. I very much fear, however, that she will obtain no news here."

      He departed, and Phyllis watched him talking to some of the waiters and the leader of the orchestra.

      Presently he returned.

      "I am very sorry," he announced, "but the brother of Mademoiselle could not have come here. I have inquired of the garçons, and of Monsieur Jules there, who forgets no one. They answer all the same."

      "Thank you very much," she answered. "It must have been somewhere else!"

      She was unreasonably disappointed. It had been a very slender chance, but at least it was something tangible. She had scarcely expected to have it snapped so soon and so thoroughly. She dropped her veil to hide the tears which she felt were not far from her eyes, and summoned the waiter for her bill. There seemed to be no object in staying longer. Suddenly the unexpected happened.

      A hand, flashing with jewels, was rested for a moment upon her table. When it was withdrawn a scrap of paper remained there.

      Phyllis looked up in amazement. The girl to whom the hand had belonged was sitting at the next table, but her head was turned away, and she seemed to be only concerned in watching the door. She drew the scrap of paper towards her and cautiously opened it. This is what she read, written in English, but with a foreign turn to most of the letters:—

      "Monsieur Albert lied. Your brother was here. Wait till I speak to you."

      Instinctively she crumpled up this strange little note in her hand. She struggled hard to maintain her composure. She had at once the idea that every one in the place was looking at her. Monsieur Albert, indeed, on his way down the room wondered what had driven the hopeless expression from her face.

      The waiter brought her bill. She paid it and tipped him with prodigality which for a woman was almost reckless. Then she