Servants in the small Hotel Lincoln, in Paris,* were mildly surprised one evening last week to see the short, white-mustached old Americain who had been stopping at the hotel with his sick wife for several weeks, making his way furtively out of the house through the dim-lit service entrance. With him was his alert, dark-haired son, who had just arrived from the U. S. The son carried a small handbag. In the street they hailed a taxi, vanished into the night.
The taxi driver took them to the Gare de Lyon. They caught the midnight...
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