ever
hesitated. So now he answered, promptly, "Dexter." He had long ago
discovered that he could make any woman believe he was jealous of any
man, no matter whom, even one to whom she had never spoken; it
presupposed that the other man had been all the time a silent admirer,
and on this point the grasp of the feminine imagination is wide and
hopeful.

"How like you that is! Mr. Dexter is nothing to me."

"You have been out driving with him already," said Heathcote, pursuing
his advantage; "and you have not been out with me."

"He has gone; so we need not quarrel about him."

"When did he go?"

"Early this morning. And to show you how unjust you are, he went because
last evening Anne Douglas refused him."

"Then he was refused twice in one day," said Heathcote. "Mrs. Bannert
refused him at six."

"How do you know?"

"She told me."

"Traitorous creature!"

"Oh no; she is an especial--I may say confidential--friend of mine."

"Then what am I?"

"Not a friend at all, I hope," said the man beside her. "Something
more." He was pulling a spray of vine to pieces, and did not look up;
but Helen was satisfied, and smiled to herself brightly. She now went
back to Anne. "Did you know poor Anne was gone too, Ward?"

"Gone!" said Heathcote, starting. Then he controlled himself. "What do
you mean?" he asked.

"I mean that Miss Vanhorn cruelly sent her away this afternoon without
warning, and with only a little money; Bessmer was not even allowed to
inquire what she intended to do, or where she was going. I have been
haunted ever since I heard it by visions of the poor child arriving in
New York all alone, and perhaps losing her way: she only knew that one
up-town locality near Moreau's."

"Do you mean to say that no one knows where she has gone?"

"No one. Bessmer tells me that the old dragon was in one of her black
rages. Mr. Dexter was with Anne for some time in the little parlor
during the ball last evening, and Miss Vanhorn had the room made ready,
as though she expected him. Here are the few lines the poor child left
for me: they are constrained, and very unlike her; but I suppose she was
too troubled to choose her words. She told me herself only the day
before that she was very unhappy."

Heathcote took the little note, and slipped it into an inner pocket. He
said nothing, and went on stripping the vine.

"There is one thing that puzzles me," continued Helen. "Bessmer heard
the old woman say, violently,