rs' Club in the faint hope of a letter. Wrath
still smouldered deep in Peter; he would not enter a room at the club
if Mrs. Boyer sat within. He had had a long hour with Dr. Jennings,
and left that cheerful person writhing in abasement. And he had held
a stormy interview with the Frau Schwarz, which left her humble for
a week, and exceedingly nervous, being of the impression from Peter's
manner that in the event of Harmony not turning up an American gunboat
would sail up the right arm of the Danube and bombard the Pension
Schwarz.

Schonbrunn having failed them, McLean and, Peter went back to the city
in the street-car, neither one saying much. Even McLean's elasticity was
deserting him. His eyes, from much peering into crowds, had taken on a
strained, concentrated look.

Peter was shabbier than ever beside the other man's ultrafashionable
dress. He sat, bent forward, his long arms dangling between his knees,
his head down. Their common trouble had drawn the two together, or had
drawn McLean close to Peter, as if he recognized that there were degrees
in grief and that Peter had received almost a death-wound. His old
rage at Peter had died. Harmony's flight had proved the situation as no
amount of protestation would have done. The thing now was to find the
girl; then he and Peter would start even, and the battle to the best
man.

They had the car almost to themselves. Peter had not spoken since he sat
down. McLean was busy over a notebook, in which he jotted down from day
to day such details of their search as might be worth keeping. Now and
then he glanced at Peter as if he wished to say something, hesitated,
fell to work again over the notebook. Finally he ventured.

"How's the boy?"

"Not so well to-day. I'm having a couple of men in to see him to-night.
He doesn't sleep."

"Do you sleep?"

"Not much. He's on my mind, of course."

That and other things, Peter.

"Don't you think--wouldn't it be better to have a nurse. You can't go
like this all day and be up all night, you know. And Marie has him most
of the day." McLean, of course, had known Marie before. "The boy ought
to have a nurse, I think."

"He doesn't move without my hearing him."

"That's an argument for me. Do you want to get sick?"

Peter turned a white face toward McLean, a face in which exasperation
struggled with fatigue.

"Good Lord, boy," he rasped, "don't you suppose I'd have a nurse if I
could afford it?"

"Would you let me help?