given place to a fierce longing for a glimpse of her, for the sound of
her voice, for the shy glance of her beautiful eyes.

"Now, let's play ball," said Clancy when they were in a train speeding
south. "Has any complete search of Winifred's rooms been made?"

"How do you mean?"

"Did you look in every hole and corner for a torn envelope, a twisted
scrap of paper, a car transfer, any mortal thing that might reveal why
she went out and did not return?"

"I told you of the bookbinder's note--"

"You sure did," broke in Clancy. "You also went to the bookbinder s'teen
times. Are you certain there was nothing else?"

"No--I didn't like--how could I peer and pry--"

"You'd make a bum detective. Imagine that poor girl crying her eyes out
in a cold dark cell all because you were too squeamish to give her
belongings the once over!"

Carshaw was not misled by Clancy's manner. He knew that his friend was
only consumed by impatience to be on the trail.

"You've fired plenty of questions at me," he said quietly. "Now it's my
turn. I understand why you came to Burlington, but where is Steingall
all this time?"

"That big stiff! How do I know?"

In a word, Clancy was uncommunicative during a whole hour. When the mood
passed he spoke of other things, but, although it was ten at night when
they reached New York, he raced Carshaw straight to East Twenty-seventh
Street and Miss Goodman.

There, in a few seconds, he was reading the agent's genuine note to
Winifred--that containing the assurance that no appointment had been
made for "East Orange."

The letter concluded:

"At first I assumed that a message intended for some other
correspondent had been sent to me by error. Now, on reperusal,
I am almost convinced that you wrote me under some
misapprehension. Will you kindly explain how it arose?"

Clancy, great as ever on such occasions, refrained from saying: "I told
you so."

"We'll call up the agent Monday, just for the sake of thoroughness," he
said. "Meanwhile, be ready to come with me to East Orange to-morrow at 8
A.M."

"Why not to-night?" urged Carshaw, afire with a rage to be up and doing.

"What? To sleep there? Young man, you don't know East Orange. Run away
home to your ma!"

* * * * *

"Where have you been?" inquired Mrs. Carshaw when her son entered. Her
air was subdued. She had suffered a good deal these later days.

"To Vermont."

"Still pursuin