"Well, sir," he began slowly, "after her father's death, she seemed
quite distracted for a while--wandered about the house, sat in the
library of evenings, ate scarcely anything. Then Mr. Royce got to
coming to the house, and she brightened up, and we all hoped she'd
soon be all right again. Then she seemed to get worse of a sudden, and
sent us all away to get Belair ready. I got the place in order, sir,
and telegraphed her that we were ready. She answered that she'd come
in a few days. Ten days ago the rest of the servants came, and I
looked for her every day, but she didn't come. I telegraphed her
again, but she didn't answer, and, finally, I got so uneasy, sir, I
couldn't rest, and came back to the city to see what was the matter. I
got here early this morning, and went right to the house. Thomas, the
second butler, had been left in charge, and he told me that Miss
Frances and her maid had started for Belair the same day the servants
did. That's all I know."

"Then she's been gone ten days?" I questioned.

"Ten days; yes, sir."

Ten days! What might not have happened in that time! Doctor.
Jenkinson's theory of dementia recurred to me, and I was more than
ever inclined to credit it. How else explain this flight? I could see
from Mr. Royce's face how absolutely nonplused he was.

"Well," I said at last, for want of something better, "we'll go with
you to the house, and see the man in charge there. Perhaps he can tell
us something more."

But he could tell us very little. Ten days before, a carriage had
driven up to the door, Miss Holladay and her maid had entered it and
been driven away. The carriage had been called, he thought, from some
neighboring stable, as the family coachman had been sent away with the
other servants. They had driven down the avenue toward Thirty-fourth
Street, where, he supposed, they were going to the Long Island
station. We looked through the house--it was in perfect order. Miss
Holladay's rooms were just as she would naturally have left them. Her
father's rooms, too, were evidently undisturbed.

"Here's one thing," I said, "that might help," and I picked up a
photograph from the mantel. "You won't mind my using it?"

Mr. Royce took it with trembling hand and gazed at it for a moment--at
the dark eyes, the earnest mouth----Then he handed it back to me.

"No," he answered; "not if it will really help; we must use every
means we can. Only----"

"I won't use it unless I absolutely hav