"It wasn't a letter. Perhaps it was a telegram."

"No, it wasn't a telegram-I looked that up. Are you sure it wasn't a letter?"

"Yes. The morning mail was delivered shortly after nine. She was happy as usual until the moment of her disappearance, two hours later. If it wasn't a letter or a telegram, he must have come in person."

G.o.dfrey sat for a moment with intent face.

"I hardly think so," he said, at last. "Some one would have noticed a stranger, and I made special inquiries on that point, though it was a lover I was looking for, not a husband. I rather imagined that there was another man in the case, and that, at the last moment, she decided to marry him and ran away to do it."

"No," I said decidedly, "she was in love with Curtiss-pa.s.sionately in love with him."

"Well, lover or husband, I don't believe he came in person. I think it much more probable that the warning came from inside the house."

"From the maid," I suggested.

"Precisely," he nodded. "From the maid."

Then, suddenly, I recalled the sweet face, the clear gaze--

"It's a pretty theory, G.o.dfrey," I said; "but I don't believe it. Have you ever seen Miss Lawrence?"

"No-not even her photograph. I tried to get one and failed," he added, with rueful countenance.

"She's a beautiful woman-she's more than that-she's a good woman. There's something Madonna-like about her."

"Most of the famous Madonnas," he said, smiling, "however virginal in appearance, were anything but Madonna-like in behaviour-Andrea del Sarto's, for instance."

With a little shiver, I remembered Mr. Royce's phrase-it was to the del Sarto Madonna he had compared her! Could I be wrong in my estimate of her, after all?

"There's no other theory will explain her flight," he repeated. "Presuming, of course, that she was sane."

"She was very sane," I said, in a low voice. "She was a self-controlled, well-balanced woman."

"And that she still loves Curtiss."

"I'm sure she does."

"Then you'll find I'm right. But come," he added, rising, "I've got some work to do. I'll try to meet you as you come away from the Kingdon cottage. I'm curious to know what luck you'll have."

He left me at the hotel door and hurried away toward the business part of the town, while I turned in the opposite direction. G.o.dfrey's confidence in his theory weighed upon me heavily. He was right in saying that it seemed the only tenable one, and yet, with the memory of Miss Lawrence's pure face before me, I could not believe it. I could not believe that those clear eyes sheltered such a secret. I could not believe that anything shameful had ever touched her. She had kept herself unspotted from the world. And I would prove it!

As I reached the Kingdon house and turned in at the gate, I remembered with a smile the resolution I had made the night before to buy a revolver. It seemed absurd enough in the light of the clear day-that I should arm myself against two women!

There was a flower-bed on either side the walk, well-kept and in a riot of bloom, and along the hedges and about the house were others. Evidently the women who lived here not only loved flowers, but had ample time to tend them. As I approached the house, I saw that the blinds were drawn, and there seemed no sign of life about the place, but the door was opened almost instantly in answer to my knock.

The woman who opened it, I knew at once for the elder Miss Kingdon, and my eyes were caught and my attention held by the bold, virile beauty of her face-a beauty which had, in a way, burnt itself out by its very fierceness. She resembled her sister, and yet there was something higher and finer about her. She gave me the impression of one who had pa.s.sed through a fiery furnace-and not unscathed! I wondered, as G.o.dfrey had, at the dark splendour of her eyes; I could fancy how they would burn and sparkle once she was roused to anger.

"This is Miss Kingdon?" I asked.

She bowed.

"I'm going to ask a favour, Miss Kingdon," I said, "the favour of a few moments' conversation."

"Are you a reporter?" she demanded, without seeking to soften the harshness of the question, and in an instant I knew that it was she who had threatened me through the door the night before, for the voice was the same and yet not the same. Then it had been edged and broken by a kind of frenzy; now it was almost domineering in its cool insolence. What was it had so shaken her? Fear at my knock at that hour of the night? Yet she seemed anything but a woman easily alarmed.

"No, I'm not a reporter," I answered, smiling as well as I could to hide the tumult of my thoughts. "My name is Lester, and I'm acting for Mr. Curtiss. I hope you'll grant my request."

She looked at me more closely, and her lips curved derisively.

"I've heard of you," she said.

"From your sister, no doubt. I had the pleasure of meeting her yesterday afternoon."

I could not wholly keep the irony out of my tone.

"I guess you didn't find out much from her," she retorted.

"Not half as much as she knew. I hope you'll be more frank with me."

She hesitated a moment longer, then stood aside.

"Very well; come in," she said, and as I entered, she pointed the way into a room at the right.

It was a large, pleasant room, well furnished and in excellent taste. On my first glance around, my eyes were caught and held by a portrait which occupied the place of honour on the wall opposite the front windows. It was a woman's head, life-size, evidently done from life, crude enough in execution, but of a woman so brilliantly beautiful that her face seemed to glow through the canvas, to rise superior to the lack of skill with which the artist had depicted her. There was something familiar about it, too-at least, I fancied so-and then I shook the thought away impatiently.

"Well?" asked a voice, and I turned to see that Miss Kingdon was waiting for me to speak. "Sit down," she added abruptly, and herself sat down opposite me, and gazed at me with fierce eyes that never wavered.

"Mr. Curtiss is naturally anxious," I began, "to find Miss Lawrence and to hear from her own lips the reason for her flight. He even thinks he has a certain right to know that reason. I'm trying to find where Miss Lawrence is."

"And why do you come here?" she asked with compressed lips.

"Because," I answered boldly, "I believe that Miss Lawrence came here when she left her home. She went first into the library, where she sat for a while until she decided what to do; then she opened the library window, descended from the balcony, and ran here along the path which leads through the trees to that gate out yonder. You received her and refused to allow any one to see her."

"I refused to allow the reporters to see her!" she cried. "Surely, you would have done as much!"

"Yes," I said, repressing as well as I could the sudden burst of triumph which glowed within me. "Yes-perhaps I should. But you'll not refuse me?"

She smiled grimly.

"That was cleverly done, Mr. Lester," she said. "Fortunately it's no longer a question of my consent or refusal."

"Miss Lawrence isn't here?"

"No; Miss Lawrence left here late last night."

"And went--"

"Ah, that I shall not tell."