His mind was full of her. Every vehicle that pa.s.sed attracted his gaze, for he speculated that she might be in one of them. Not a well-dressed woman came within the range of his vision but she was subjected to a hurried inspection, even from a distance. He strode slowly along, looking intently at each house. None of them seemed to him to hold the object of his search. As his steps carried him farther and farther into the beautiful avenue he began to smile to himself and his plodding spirit wavered. After all, thought he, no one but a silly a.s.s would attempt to find a person in a great city after the fashion he was pursuing. He was deciding to board a tramcar and return to the hotel when, at some distance ahead, he saw a young lady run hurriedly down the steps of an impressive looking house.

He recognized Dorothy Garrison, and with a thump of exultation his heart urged him across the street toward her. She evidently had not seen him; her eyes were on the ground and she seemed preoccupied. In her hand she held a letter. A gasp of astonishment, almost of alarm, came from her lips, her eyes opened wide in that sort of surprise which reveals something like terror, and then she crumpled the letter in her hand spasmodically.

"I thought you lived down here somewhere," he exclaimed, joyfully, seizing her hand. "'I knew I could find you."

"I--I am so glad to see you," she stammered, with a brave effort to recover from the shock his appearance had created. "What are you doing here, Phil?"

"Looking for you, Dorothy. Shall I post your letter?"

She was still standing as if rooted to the spot, the letter in a sad plight.

"Oh, I'll not--not post it now. I should have sent the footman. Come with me and see mamma. I know she will be glad to have you here,"

she hurried, in evident confusion. She bethought herself suddenly and made an effort to withdraw the letter from its rather conspicuous position. The hand containing it was drawn behind her back.

"That will be very nice of her. Better post the letter, though.

Somebody's expecting it, you know. Hullo! That's not a nice way to treat a letter. Let me straighten it out for you.''

"Never mind, Phil--really, I don't care about it. You surprised me so tremendously that I fear I've ruined it. Now I shall have to write another."

"Fiddlesticks! Send it as it is. The prince will blame the postoffice people," cried he.

"It is not for the prince," she cried, quickly, and then became more confused than ever. "Come to the house, Phil. You must tell me how you happen to be here."

As they walked slowly to the Garrison home and mounted the steps, she religiously held the epistle where he could not regard it too closely should his curiosity overcome his prudence. They were ushered into the reception room, and she directed the footman to ask if Mrs. Garrison could see Mr. Quentin.

"Now, tell me all about it," she said, taking a chair quite across the big room.

"There's nothing to tell," he said. "I am in Brussels, and I thought I'd hunt you up."

"But why didn't you write or wire me that you were coming? You haven't acted much like a friend," she said, pointedly.

"Perhaps I wrote and never mailed the letter. Remember your experience just now. You still hold the unlucky note in your hand.

Sometimes we think better of our intentions at the very instant when they are going into effect. It is very mysterious to me that you wouldn't mail that letter. I can only believe that you changed your mind when you saw me."

"How absurd! As if seeing you could have anything to do with it!"

"You ought to tell me if my appearance here is liable to alter any plan that letter is intended to perfect. Don't let me be an inconvenience. You know I'd rather be anything than an inconvenience."

"It doesn't matter in the least; really, it doesn't. Your coming--"

The footman appeared on the landing above at that instant and said something to her in a language Quentin could not understand. He afterward heard it was French. And he always had thought himself a pretty fair French scholar, too.

"Mamma has asked for me, Phil. Will you pardon me if I leave you alone for a moment?" she said, arising and starting toward the grand stairway. The letter, which she had forgotten for the moment, fell from her lap to the rug. In an instant he had stepped forward to pick it up. As he stooped she realized what had happened, and, with a frantic little cry, stooped also. Their heads were close together, but his hand was the first to touch the missive. It lay with the address upward, plain to the eye; he could not help seeing the name.

It was addressed to "Philip Quentin, Esq., care of the Earl of Saxondale, Park Lane, London, W. S." Surprise stayed his fingers, and hers clutched the envelope ruthlessly. As they straightened themselves each was looking directly into the other's eyes. In hers there was shame, confusion, even guilt; in his, triumphant, tantalizing mirth.

"My letter, please," he said, his voice trembling, he knew not why.

His hand was extended. She drew suddenly away and a wave of scarlet crossed her face.

"What a stupid I was to drop it," she cried, almost tearfully. Then she laughed as the true humor of the situation made itself felt in spite of consequences. "Isn't it too funny for anything?"

"I can't see anything funny in tampering with the mails. You have my letter, and I hope it won't be necessary for me to call in the officers of the law."

"You don't expect me to give it to you?" she cried, holding it behind her.

"Most a.s.suredly. If you don't, I'll ask Mrs. Garrison to command you to do so," he threatened, eagerly. He would have given his head to read the contents of the letter that caused her so much concern. All sorts of conjectures were racing through his brain.

"Oh, please don't do that!" she begged, and he saw real supplication in her eyes. "I wouldn't give you the letter for the world, and I--I--well, don't you see that I am embarra.s.sed?"

"Give me the letter," he commanded, Sternly.

"Do you wish me to hate you?" she blazed.

"'Heaven forbid!"

"Then forget that your name is on this--this detestable envelope,"

she cried, tearing the missive into pieces. He looked on in wonder, chagrin, disappointment.

"By George, Dorothy, that's downright cruel. It was intended for me--"

"You should thank me. I have only saved you the trouble of destroying it," she said, smiling.

"I would have kept it forever," he said, fervently.

"Here's a small bit of the envelope which you may keep as a souvenir. See, it has your name--'Philip'--on it. You shall have that much of the letter." He took it rather gracelessly and, deliberately opening his watch, placed it inside the case. "I'd give $10,000 to know what that letter had to say to me."

"You can never know," she said, defiantly, from the bottom of the steps, "for I have forgotten the contents myself."

She laughed as she ran upstairs, but he detected confusion in the tone, and the faint flush was still on her cheek. He sat down and wondered whether the contents would have pleased or displeased him.

Philosophically he resolved that as long as he was never to know he might just as well look at it from a cheerful point of view; he would be pleased.

IX. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

It would be difficult to define the emotions that consumed Miss Garrison as she entered her mother's boudoir. She could not conceal from herself the sensation of jubilant delight because he had come to Brussels. At the same time, even though his visit was that of a mere friend, it promised complications which she was loath to face.

She went into the presence of her mother with the presentiment that the first of the series was at hand.

"What is Philip Quentin doing here, Dorothy?" demanded Mrs.

Garrison. She was standing in the center of the room, and her att.i.tude was that of one who has experienced a very unpleasant surprise. The calm, cold tone was not far from accusing; her steely eyes were hard and uncompromising. The tall daughter stood before her, one hand still clutching the bits of white paper; on her face there was the imprint of demure concern.

"I haven't had time to ask him, mamma," she said, lightly, "Would it be quite the proper thing to demand the reason for his presence here when it seems quite clear that he is paying us a brief morning call?"

"Do not be absurd! I mean, what is he doing in Brussels? Didn't he say he was to return to New York last week?" There was refined belligerence in her voice. Dorothy gave a brief thought to the cool, unabashed young man below and smiled inwardly as she contemplated the reception he was to receive from this austere interrogator.

"Don't ask me, mamma, I am as much puzzled as you over his sudden advent. It is barely possible he did not go to New York."