sie's
going for his letters, and how she cried over them. He is all sympathy,
and bids her say on as he moves about the room, touching little
odds-and-ends that he knows must be hers; and he is loath to go, but
eager too, since it is to carry him back to her. He writes a few lines
on a card to tell them of his visit and his orders, should they fail to
meet; he begs the doctor to write, and warns him that he must expect
frequent letters; and then, with one long look about the sunlit,
love-haunted room, with one appeal for brotherly sympathy in his parting
gaze at Guthrie Warren's picture, he strides back to the station, and by
sunrise of another day is hurrying to Washington. In his breast-pocket
he carries the compact little wad of letters, all addressed to himself,
all written in her own delicate and dainty hand, yet sealed from his
eyes as securely as though locked in casket of steel. Though he longs
inexpressibly to read their pages and to better know the gentle soul
that has so suddenly come into his life, they are not his to open. What
would he not give for one moment face to face with the man who had lured
and tricked her--and with his name!

They are not at Willard's, says the clerk, when Major Abbot arrives and
makes his inquiries. The doctor paid his bill that morning and they were
driven away, but he does not think they left town. Yes, telegrams and
letters both had come for the doctor, and the young lady had been
confined to her room a few days, and was hardly well enough to be
journeying now. Abbot's orders require him to report at the War
Department on the following day, and he cannot go to rest until he has
found their hiding-place. Something tells him that she has at last
discovered the fraud of which she has been made the victim, and he longs
to find her--longs to tell her that if the real Paul Abbot can only be
accepted in lieu of the imaginary there need be no break in that strange
correspondence; he is ready to endorse anything his fraudulent double
may have written provided it be only love and loyalty to her.

It is late at night before he has succeeded in finding the hack driver
who took them away, and by him is driven to the house wherein they have
sought refuge. All distressed as he is at thought of their fleeing from
him, Paul Abbot finds it sweet to sit in the carriage which less than
twelve hours ago bore her over these self-same dusty streets. He bids
the hackman rein up when he gets to the c