To-morrow it might be too late. Even before to-day's sun had set
Beatrice might be once more taken from him, snatched away to the ends
of the earth by her father's ever-changing caprice. To lose a moment now
might be to lose all.
He was tempted to yield, to resign his will into Unorna's hands, and his
sight to her leading, to let her bid him sleep and see the truth. But
then, with a sudden reaction of his individuality, he realized that
he had another course, surer, simpler, more dignified. Beatrice was in
Prague. It was little probable that she was permanently established in
the city, and in all likelihood she and her father were lodged in one of
the two or three great hotels. To be driven from the one to the other of
these would be but an affair of minutes. Failing information from this
source, there remained the registers of the Austrian police, whose
vigilance takes note of every stranger's name and dwelling-place.
"I thank you," he said. "If all my inquiries fail, and if you will let
me visit you once more to-day, I will then ask your help."
"You are right," Unorna answered.
CHAPTER III
He had been deceived in supposing that he must inevitably find the
names of those he sought upon the ordinary registers which chronicle
the arrival and departure of travellers. He lost no time, he spared
no effort, driving from place to place as fast as two sturdy Hungarian
horses could take him, hurrying from one office to another, and again
and again searching endless pages and columns which seemed full of all
the names of earth, but in which he never found the one of all others
which he longed to read.
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