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 there wasn't a servant in the hotel that didn't understand where the hate between the two men came from. And, to cap all, the man went away at the height of it, and we were left with the girl, and with all the talk that followed his disappearance.

Until this moment, I had looked upon the whole episode as a handsome turn of fortune. There were many weeks after the strange hoax of the golden egg when my master never put his nose outside the Hôtel de Lille. In all the years I've known him, I can never remember such an upset as that business was to his health and to his energy. He seemed just like one stupefied, with no taste for work and no taste for play. The little money that he possessed dribbled away pound by pound, until I had to find what was wanted even for his daily living. He no longer earned any thing at the billiard table; he scarce read the newspapers. There were days when he never got up from his bed; days when he did not open his lips to man or woman. And I do believe that he was never so low, or in such a queer way, as upon the evening that brought him face to face with Dora Grey, and gave a turn to his life which he was to feel for many years.

She came to the hotel quite sudden—an auburn- haired, blue-eyed little thing, with the fairest skin woman ever had, and a way with her which was wonderful to see. The name down in the visitors' book was "Dora Grey of Boston," and just above it, I saw written, "Michel Grey, artist." But I didn't mark