" He glanced at his cuff-band.
"Where did she go from the Rue de la Paix?" asked Robin impatiently.
"To the Ritz. I was there almost as soon as she. She handed an
envelope--containing a letter, I fancy--to the carriage man and
drove away in the direction of the Place de l'Opera. I have a sly
notion, my Prince, that you will find a note awaiting you on your
return to the hotel. Ah, you appear to be in haste, my young hunter."
"I am in haste. If you expect to keep alongside, Baron, you'll have
to run I'm afraid," cried the Prince, and was instantly in his seven-
league boots.
There was a note in Robin's rooms when he reached the hotel. It was
not the delicately perfumed article that usually is despatched by
fictional heroines but a rather business-like envelope bearing the
well-known words "The New York Herald" in one corner and the name "R.
Schmidt, Hotel Ritz," in firm but angular scrawl across its face. As
Robin ripped it open with his finger, Baron Gourou entered the room,
but not without giving vent to a slight cough in the way of an
announcement.
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