An hour after he had sent her this appeal, a card was brought to him as he sat at his table-d'hôte lunch in the hotel dining-room. "Hyacinthe de St. D. Momoro" was the name engraved, and it brought the ever-ready colour into the young American's cheeks. He immediately left the table and went out to find his caller; but Hyacinthe was not to be seen in any of the Moorish public apartments, nor upon the terrace. Ogle went to the concierge, as he had already learned to do in all emergencies.
"Monsieur Hyacinthe Momoro is gone away directly," he was informed. "I think he don't call to see you; he just call. Leave card for politeness."
"But didn't he say he wanted to see me? Didn't he leave any message?"
"No; he don't say anything at all; jus' say his card is for Misterr Uggle," the concierge replied; and he added, with what appeared to be a rather cynical amusement: "He look very bad."
"Ill, you mean?"
"No; he's not seek." The concierge laughed. "He has a glooms. Might be, he's getting a nerves attack."
"What about?"
"I don' know," the man said; and, losing interest
