Part 61

The Adventures of the Foundling.

"And I have never heard of my little Jean again," said Aristide.

"Why didn't you write?" I asked.

"I knew their names, Honeywood; Miss Janet was the elder, Miss Anne the younger. But the name of the place they lived at I have never been able to remember. It was near London--they used to come up by train to matinées and afternoon concerts. But what it is called, mon Dieu, I have racked my brain for it. Sacré mille tonnerres!" He leaped to his feet in his unexpected, startling way, and pounced on a Bradshaw's Railway Guide lying on my library table. "Imbecile, pig, triple ass that I am! Why did I not think of this before? It is near London. If I look through all the stations near London on every line, I shall find it."

"All right," said I, "go ahead."

I lit a cigarette and took up a novel. I had not read very far when a sudden uproar from the table caused me to turn round. Aristide danced and flourished the Bradshaw over his head.

"Chislehurst! Chislehurst! Ah, mon ami, now I am happy. Now I have found my little Jean. You will forgive me--but I must go now and embrace him."

He held out his hand.

"Where are you off to?" I demanded.

"The Chislehurst, where else?"

"My dear fellow," said I, rising, "do you seriously suppose that these two English maiden ladies have taken on themselves the responsibility of that foreign brat's upbringing?"

"Mon Dieu!" said he taken aback for the moment, hypothesis having entered his head. Then, with a wide gesture, he flung the preposterous idea to the winds. "Of course. They have hearts, these English women. They have maternal instincts. They have money." He looked at Bradshaw again, then at his watch. "I have just time to catch a train. Au revoir, mon vieux."

"But," I objected, "why don't you write? It's the natural thing to do."

"Write? Bah! Did you ever hear of a Provençal writing when he could talk?" He tapped his lips, and in an instant, like a whirlwind, he passed from my ken.

* * * * *

Aristide on his arrival at Chislehurst looked about the pleasant, leafy place--it was a bright October afternoon and the wooded hillside blazed in russet and gold--and decided it was the perfect environment for Miss Janet and Miss Anne, to say nothing of little Jean. A neat red brick house with a trim garden in front of it looked just the kind of a house wherein Miss Janet and Miss Anne would live. He rang the bell. A parlour-maid, in spotless black and white, tutelary nymph of Suburbia, the very parlour-maid who would minister to Miss Janet and Miss Anne, opened the door.

"Miss Honeywood?" he inquired.

"Not here, sir," said the parlour-maid.

"Where is she? I mean, where are they?"

"No one of that name lives here," said the parlour-maid.

"Who does live here?"

"Colonel Brabazon."

"And where do the two Miss Honeywood live?" he asked with his engaging smile.

But English suburban parlour-maids are on their guard against smiles, no matter how engaging. She prepared to shut the door.

"I don't know."

"How can I find out?"

"You might enquire among the tradespeople."

"Thank you, mademoiselle, you are a most intelligent young----"