e least clue to her whereabouts; evening
followed, and still no trace of the fugitive. What was I to do? Take Mr.
Gryce into my confidence after all? That would be galling to my pride,
but I began to fear I should have to submit to this humiliation when I
happened to think of the Chinaman. To think of him once was to think of
him twice, and to think of him twice was to be conscious of an
irresistible desire to visit his place and find out if any one but
myself had been there to inquire after the lost one's clothes.

Accompanied by Lena, I hurried away to Third Avenue. The laundry was
near Twenty-seventh Street. As we approached I grew troubled and
unaccountably expectant. When we reached it I understood my excitement
and instantly became calm. For there stood Miss Oliver, gazing like one
under a spell through the lighted window-panes into the narrow shop
where the owner bent over his ironing. She had evidently stood there
some time, for a small group of half-grown lads were watching her with
every symptom of being about to break into a mischievous display of
curiosity. Her hands, which were without gloves, were pressed against
the glass, and her whole attitude showed an intensity of fatigue which
would have laid her on the ground had she not been sustained by an equal
intensity of purpose.

Sending Lena for a carriage, I approached the poor creature and drew her
forcibly from the window.

"Do you want anything here?" I asked. "I will go in with you if you do."

She surveyed me with strange apathy, and yet with a certain sort of
relief too. Then she slowly shook her head.

"I don't know anything about it. My head swims and everything looks
queer, but some one or something sent me to this place."

"Come in," I urged, "come in for a minute." And half supporting her,
half dragging her, I managed to get her across the threshold and into
the Chinaman's shop.

Immediately a dozen faces were pressed where hers had been.

The Chinaman, a stolid being, turned as he heard the little bell tinkle
which announced a customer.

"Is this the lady who left the clothes here a few nights ago?" I asked.

He stopped and stared, recognizing me slowly, and remembering by degrees
what had passed between us at our last interview.

"You tellee me lalee die; how him lalee when lalee die?"

"The lady is not dead; I made a mistake. Is this the lady?"

"Lalee talk; I no see face, I hear speak."

"Have you seen this man before?" I inqu