r
tray. It was addressed to "Lady Courtenaye," but I asked Jim to open it
and read the message first.

"Rosemary has--gone," he told me. "Murray asks if, by any chance, she
has come here. There's a 'reply-paid' form; but he wants us to run over
to him if we can."

Jim scrawled an answer:

Deeply regret she is not here. Will be with you shortly.

and sent it off by the post-office boy who waited, though it was
probable that we should see Murray before our response to his question
reached him.

I think I was never so sorry for any man in my life!

"I have been too happy!" he said, when he had come to meet us in the
hall--walking firmly in these days--and had led us into his study or
"den." "She's such a friend of yours, Elizabeth. Has she consciously or
unconsciously given you some clue?"

"No real clue," I told him, regretfully; "though I may think of a
forgotten hint when we've talked things over. But you must tell us
exactly what has happened."

Poor Murray held himself in iron control. Perhaps he even "hoped for the
best," as Jim urged him to do. But I saw through the false calmness into
a despairing soul. Already the newly lit flame of restored vitality
burned low. He looked years older, and I would have given much if Sir
Beverley or even the understudy had been in the house. Doctor Thomas had
gone a week ago, however, Sir Beverley judging that Murray could now get
on by himself. Alas, he had not guessed how literally the man would be
left alone to do this!

The morning of yesterday had passed, Murray said, in an ordinary way.
Then, by the second post, which arrived after luncheon, a registered
letter had come for Rosemary. Such letters appeared now and then, at
regular intervals, and Rosemary had explained that they were sent on by
her bank in London, and contained enclosures from America. Rosemary
never talked to him of these letters, or of America at all, having told
him once, before their marriage, that her one link with that country now
was her sister. Whether or not she was fond of the sister he could not
say; but she always seemed restless when one of these registered letters
arrived.

Yesterday was no exception to the rule. When the letter was handed to
Rosemary she and her husband were having coffee and cigarettes in her
boudoir. She flushed at sight of the envelope, but tossed it aside
unopened, as though she took no interest in its contents, and continued
the conversation as if it had no