As Watts left the hall, a servant entered it.

"I had to wait, Miss D'Alloi," he said. "No papers are for sale till eight o'clock."

Leonore took the newspaper silently and went to the library. Then she opened it and looked at the first column. She read it hurriedly.

"I knew he wasn't hurt," she said, "because I would have felt it, and because he had my luck piece." Then she stepped out of one of the windows, called Betise to her, and putting her arms about his neck, kissed him.

When the New York papers came things were even better, for they recorded the end of the strike. Leonore even laughed over that big, big D. "I can't imagine him getting so angry," she said "He must have a temper, after all." She sang a little, as she fixed the flowers in the vases, and one of the songs was "Happiness." Nor did she snub a man who hinted at afternoon tea, as she had a poor unfortunate who suggested tennis earlier in the day.

While they were sipping their tea, however, Watts came in from the club.

"Helen," he said, going to the bay window farthest from the tea-table, "come here I want to say something."

They whispered for a moment, and then Mrs. D'Alloi came back to her tea.

"Won't you have a cup, papa?" asked Leonore.

"'Not to-day, dear," said Watts, with an unusual tenderness in his voice.

Leonore was raising a spoon to her mouth, but suddenly her hand trembled a little. After a glance at her father and mother, she pushed her tea-cup into the centre of the table as if she had finished it, though it had just been poured. Then she turned and began to talk and laugh with the caller.

But the moment the visitor was out of the room, Leonore said:

"What is it, papa?"

Watts was standing by the fire. He hesitated. Then he groaned. Then he went to the door. "Ask your mother," he said, and went out of the room.

"Mamma?" said Leonore.

"Don't excite yourself, dear," said her mother. "I'll tell you to-morrow."

Leonore was on her feet. "No," she said huskily, "tell me now."

"Wait till we've had dinner."

"Mamma," cried Leonore, appealingly, "don't you see that--that--that I suffer more by not knowing it? Tell me."

"Oh, Leonore," cried her mother, "don't look that way. I'll tell you; but don't look that way!"

"What?"

Mrs. D'Alloi put her arms about Leonore. "The Anarchists have exploded a bomb."

"Yes?" said Leonore.

"And it killed a great many of the soldiers."

"Not--?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, mamma," said Leonore. She unclasped her mother's arms, and went towards the door.

"Leonore," cried her mother, "stay here with me, dear."

"I'd rather be alone," said Leonore, quietly. She went upstairs to her room and sank down by an ottoman which stood in the middle of the floor.

She sat silent and motionless, for over an hour, looking straight before her at nothing, as Peter had so often done. Is it harder to lose out of life the man or woman whom one loves, or to see him or her happy in the love of another. Is the hopelessness of the impossible less or greater than the hopelessness of the unattainable?

Finally Leonore rose, and touched her bell. When her maid came she said, "Get me my travelling dress." Ten minutes later she came into the library, saying to Watts.

"Papa, I want you to take me to New York, by the first train."

"Are you crazy, my darling?" cried Watts. "With riots and Anarchists all over the city."

"I must go to New York," said Leonore. "If you won't take me, I'll go with madame."

"Not for a moment--" began Watts.

"Papa," cried Leonore, "don't you see it's killing me? I can't bear it--" and Leonore stopped.

"Yes, Watts, we must," said Mrs. D'Alloi.

Two hours later they were all three rolling towards New York. It was a five hours' ride, but Leonore sat the whole distance without speaking, or showing any consciousness of her surroundings. For every turn of those wheels seemed to fall into a rhythmic repet.i.tion of: "If I had only said 'good-bye.'"

The train was late in arriving, and Watts tried to induce Leonore to go to a hotel for the night. She only said "No. Take me to him," but it was in a voice which Watts could not disregard. So after a few questions at the terminal, which produced no satisfactory information, Watts told the cabman to drive to the City Hall Park.

They did not reach it, however, for at the corner of Centre Street and Chambers, there came a cry of "halt," and the cab had to stop.

"You can't pa.s.s this line," said the sentry. "You must go round by Broadway."

"Why?" asked Watts.

"The street is impa.s.sable."

Watts got out, and held a whispered dialogue with the sentry. This resulted in the summoning of the officer of the watch. In the mean time Leonore descended and joined them. Watts turned and said to her: "The sentry says he's here."

Presently an officer came up.

"An' what do the likes av yez want at this time av night?" he inquired crossly. "Go away wid yez."

"Oh, Captain Moriarty," said Leonore, "won't you let me see him? I'm Miss D'Alloi."

"Shure," said Dennis, "yez oughtn't to be afther disturbin' him. It's two nights he's had no sleep."

Leonore suddenly put her hand on Dennis's arm. "He's not killed?" she whispered, as if she could not breathe, and the figure swayed a little.

"Divil a bit! They got it wrong entirely. It was that dirty spalpeen av a Podds."