fellow-countryman and all that concerned him. It must have been about nine
o'clock when he went out, perhaps a few minutes earlier. No, there had been
nothing peculiar in his actions or manner; in fact, most of the guests had
not even noticed his absence.

As to Kittredge's life and personality the result was scarcely more
satisfactory. He had appeared in Paris about a year before, just why was
not known, and had passed as a good fellow, perhaps a little wild and
hot-headed. Strangely enough, no one could say where Kittredge lived; he
had left rather expensive rooms near the boulevards that he had occupied at
first, and since then he had almost disappeared from his old haunts. Some
said that his money had given out and he had gone to work, but this was
only vague rumor.

These facts having been duly recorded, the banqueters were informed that
they might depart, which they did in silence, the spirit of festivity
having vanished.

Inquiries were now made in the hotel about Kittredge's movements, but
nothing came to light except the statement of a big, liveried doorkeeper,
who remembered distinctly the sudden appearance at about nine o'clock of a
young man who was very anxious to get a cab. The storm was then at its
height, and the doorkeeper had advised the young man to wait, feeling sure
the tempest would cease as suddenly as it had begun; but the latter,
apparently ill at ease, had insisted that he must go at once; he said he
would find a cab himself, and turning up his collar so that his face was
almost hidden, and drawing his thin overcoat tight about his evening dress,
he had dashed into the black downpour, and a moment later the doorkeeper,
surprised at this eccentric behavior, saw the young man hail a passing
_fiacre_ and drive away.