"Undoubtedly I believe them. She is travelling as companion, no doubt,
to some elderly lady. Such situations crop up occasionally. I see she
gives you no address to which to write."

"I don't know that I should care to write if she did. _You_ may forgive
her, squire, but by the Lord Harry! _I_ aint got that far yet. If she
didn't run away with young Thorndyke, what did she run away at all for?"

"Because she cared so little for me, that facing the world alone was
easier than becoming my wife. We won't talk of it, Mr. Kent. How long do
you remain in town?"

Uncle Reuben rose.

"We go to-day, thank fortin'. How you, all of you, manage to live in
such a Babel beats me! Can't you strike work, Mr. Gilbert, and run down
to see us this blazin' summer weather?"

Mr. Gilbert shook his head with a smile.

"I am afraid not. I am very busy; I find hard work does me good. Well,
good-by, old friend. I am sincerely glad to have read those
letters--sincerely glad she is safe and well."

Then they were gone, and Richard Gilbert sat down alone in the hot,
dusty office. But the dusty office faded away, and in its place the rich
greenness of meadows came, the sweet, new-mown hay scented the air,
green trees and bright flowers surrounded him instead of dry-as-dust
legal tomes. And fairer, brighter, sweeter than all, came floating back
the exquisite face of Norine, the dark eyes gleaming, the white teeth
sparkling, the loose hair blowing, the soft mouth laughing. And once she
had promised to be his wife!

"Mr. Thorndyke, sir?"

The voice of his clerk aroused him. The fairy vision faded and fled, and
Richard Gilbert, in his grimy office, looked grimly up into the face of
Laurence Thorndyke.

"How do, Gilbert?" says Mr. Thorndyke, nodding easily; "hope I don't
intrude. Was loafing down town, and thought I would just drop in and see
if there was any news yet from the old man."

Mr. Thorndyke has lost none of the easy insouciance that sits
upon him so naturally and becomingly. He is in faultless
Broadway-afternoon-promenade costume, but he is not quite as
good-looking as he used to be. His handsome face looks worn and tired,
dissipated, and a trifle reckless, and the old flavor of wine and cigars
hangs about him still. He draws a chair towards him, and sits astride
upon it his arms folded over the back.

"The old man?" Mr. Gilbert repeats, still more grimly. "You refer to Mr.
Darcy, I presume?"

"Who else. To Darcy, of course-