word was a fat Englishman in a semi-nautical
costume, whom be found in the saloon of the
steamer, immersed in accounts. This person
informed him that the captain was gone to
Perigueux, and that the passengers had all been
landed yesterday at the Quai Louis Philippe.
As to where they might have gone after being
once set ashore, that was nobody's business but
their own. Perhaps it might be worth while to
make inquiry at the passport-office, or the
English consulate. He should do so himself if he
were looking after any friends of his own.

So Saxon thanked the fat Englishman for his
advice, and went to the consulate. The consul
advised him to go to the préfet, and the préfet,
after keeping him for more than an hour in a
dismal waiting-room, referred him to the
superintendent of the city police. This functionary, a
fussy, inquisitive, self-important personage,
entered Saxon's name in a big book, promised that
he would communicate with the authorities of
the passport-office, and desired monsieur to call
again to-morrow between two and four.

The day dragged slowly by; and when at night
he laid his weary head upon the pillow, Saxon
felt as if he were further off than ever from success.

The next day, Saturday, was spent in the same
unsatisfactory way. He wasted all the forenoon
in hunting out one Philip Edmonds, first mate
of the Daughter of Ocean, who was lodging at
a little marine boarding-house on the opposite
side of the river. This Edmonds at once
remembered to have seen William Trefalden and Helen
Rivière among the passengers. The lady was in
deep mourning. They landed with the others at
the Quai Louis Philippe. He had never spoken
to either, and knew nothing of their ultimate
destination. This was all that he had to tell.

Then Saxon went back to the quays, and
inquired about the steamers that would sail next
week for New York. He found that none had
left Bordeaux since the Daughter of Ocean had
come into port, and that the first departure
would take place on the following Tuesday. By
the time that these facts were ascertained, it was
late enough to go to the superintendent's office.
Here, however, he was requested to call again
tomorrow, the police having as yet been unable to
come at any satisfactory results. The vagueness
of this statement, and the air of polite indifference
with which it was conveyed to him by a
bland official in the office, convinced Saxon that
he had little to expect from aught but his own
unaided efforts. That night, having since early
morning paced untiringly about the quays and
streets and public offices of Bordeaux, he lay
down to rest, almost in despair.

CHAPTER XCI. SAXON STRIKES THE TRAIL IN A
FRESH PLACE.

"WILL monsieur have the goodness to write
his name in the visitors' book?"

Saxon had finished his solitary breakfast and
was looking dreamily out of the window of the
salle-a-manger, when the head waiter laid the
volume before him, and preferred the stereotyped
request. Scarcely glancing at the motley signatures
with which the page was nearly filled, the
young man scrawled his own.

"Tiens," said the waiter, as Saxon completed
the entry under its various headings. " Monsieur
is Swiss?"

"l am. What of it?"

"Nothing—except that monsieur speaks with
the purity of a Frenchman. There is a Swiss
Protestant chapel in Bordeaux, if monsieur would
wish to attend the service."

A new possibility suggested itself to Saxon.

"Is there any English Protestant chapel?" he
asked, quickly.

"Mais, certainement, monsieur. On the Pavé
des Chantrons. One may see it from this
window."

And the waiter pointed out a modest white
building, about a quarter of a mile away.

Saxon's heart bounded with hope renewed.
The English Protestant chapel! What more
likely than that Helen should find her way
thither, this sunny Sunday morning? What more
probable than that the English chaplain should
be able to help him? How dull he had been, not
to think of this before! Finding that it yet
wanted nearly two hours to the time when service
would begin, and that the chaplain lived near by,
Saxon went at once to wait upon him. An old
woman, however, opened the door to him, and
informed him, with many curtseys, that her master
was absent for six weeks' vacances, and that a
strange gentleman had undertaken his duty in the
mean while. As for the strange gentleman's name,
she had not the remotest idea of it. It was " un
nom Anglais—un nom excessivement difficile."

"If you will direct me where to find him,"
said Saxon, " I can dispense with his name."

"Mon Dieu, m'sieur, he is staying at Drouay!"

"Where, then, is Drouay?"

"Ah, c'est loin, m'sieur."

"What do you mean by far? How far?"

"More than three leagues, m'sieur. But he
will be here to perform the service at half-past
ten, and m'sieur can see him after it is over."

Forced to content himself with this prospect,
Saxon then chatted awhile with the garrulous old
femme de charge, and learned that Drouay was a
little village in the heart of the wine-country
north of Bordeaux; that the strange clergyman,
being in delicate health, was staying there till the
vintage-time should come round and enable him
to take the benefit of the grape-cure; that her own
master was the best man in the world; that the
chapel was très laide; that the attendance at this
season was very scanty; that the voluntary
contributions were much less than they should be; and
so forth, till he succeeded in effecting his escape.
At length half-past ten o'clock came round.
His thoughts were busy with the things of the
world, and he felt that he had no power to
abstract them. He felt that he could no more lay
down his burden upon that sacred threshold as
he ought to lay it down, than he could lay down
his personality; so he remained outside the door
and watched the congregation passing in. But