The last I saw of the fellow, he was walking toward a cab, and looking uneasily over his shoulder at his two late travelling companions, who were getting into another vehicle near by.
I went straight to the Elysee Palace Hotel, where I had never stopped before--a long drive from the Gare du Nord--and claimed the rooms for which "Mr.George Sandford" had wired from London.

The suite engaged was a charming one, and the private salon almost worthy to receive the lovely lady I expected.

Nor did she keep me waiting.

I had had time only to give instructions about sending a man with a key to the station for my luggage, to say that a lady would call, to reach my rooms, and to draw the curtains over the windows, when a knock came at the salon door.
I was in the act of turning on the electric light when this happened, but to my surprise the room remained in darkness--or rather, in a pink dusk lent by the colour of the curtains.
"The lady has arrived, Monsieur," announced the servant.

"As Monsieur expected her, she has come up without waiting; but I regret that something has gone wrong with the electricity, all over the hotel.