"When a man's in love, he doesn't see things in their true proportions,"

said Larcher, authoritatively. "He exaggerates both the favors and the rebuffs he gets, both the kindness and the coldness of the woman. If he thinks he's ill-treated, he measures the supposed cause by his sufferings. As they are so great, he thinks the woman's cruelty correspondingly great. n.o.body will believe such good things of a woman as the man who loves her; but n.o.body will believe such bad things if matters go wrong."

"Dear, dear, Tommy! What a lot you know about it!"

But Miss Hill's momentary sarcasm went unheeded. "So I really think, Miss Kenby, if you'll pardon me," Larcher continued, "that Murray Davenport ought to know your true reason for giving him up. Even if matters never go any further, he ought to know that you still--h'm--feel an interest in him--still wish him well. I'm sure if he knew about your solicitude--how it was the cause of my looking him up--I can see through all that now--"

"I can never thank you enough--and Edna," said Florence, in a tremulous voice.

"No thanks are due me," replied Larcher, emphatically. "I value his acquaintance on its own account. But if he knew about this, knew your real motives then, and your real feelings now, even if he were never to see you again, the knowledge would have an immense effect on his life.

I'm sure it would. It would restore his faith in you, in woman, in humanity. It would console him inexpressibly; would be infinitely sweet to him. It would change the color of his view of life; give him hope and strength; make a new man of him."

Florence's eyes glistened through her tears. "I should be so glad," she said, gently, "if--if only--you see, I promised not to hold any sort of communication with him."

"Oh, that promise!" cried Edna. "Just think how it was obtained. And think about those letters that were stopped. If that alone doesn't release you, I wonder what!"

Florence's face clouded with humiliation at the reminder.

"Moreover," said Larcher, "you won't be holding communication. The matter has come to my knowledge fairly enough, through Edna's lucky forgetfulness. I take it on myself to tell Davenport. I'm to meet him to-morrow, anyhow--it looks as though it had all been ordained. I really don't see how you can prevent me, Miss Kenby."

Florence's face threw off its cloud, and her conscience its scruples, and a look of grat.i.tude and relief, almost of sudden happiness, appeared.

"You are so good, both of you. There's nothing in the world I'd rather have than to see him made happy."

"If you'd like to see it with your own eyes," said Larcher, "let me send him to you for the news."

"Oh, no! I don't mean that. He mustn't know where to find me. If he came to see me, I don't know what father would do. I've been so afraid of meeting him by chance; or of his finding out I was in New York."

Larcher understood now why Edna had prohibited his mentioning the Kenbys to anybody. "Well," said he, "in that case, Murray Davenport shall be made happy by me at about one o'clock to-morrow afternoon."

"And you shall come to tea afterward and tell us all about it," cried Edna. "Flo, you _must_ be here for the news, if I have to go in a hansom and kidnap you."

"I think I can come voluntarily," said Florence, smiling through her tears.

"And let's hope this is only the beginning of matters, in spite of any silly old promise obtained by false pretences! I say, we've let our tea get cold. I must have another cup." And Miss Hill rang for fresh hot water.

The rest of the afternoon in that drawing-room was all mirth and laughter; the innocent, sweet laughter of youth enlisted in the generous cause of love and truth against the old, old foes--mercenary design, false appearance, and mistaken duty.

Larcher had two reasons for not going to his friend before the time previously set for his call. In the first place he had already laid out his time up to that hour, and, secondly, he would not hazard the disappointment of arriving with his good news ready, and not finding his friend in. To be doubly sure, he telegraphed Davenport not to forget the appointment on any account, as he had an important disclosure to make.

Full of his revelation, then, he rang the bell of his friend's lodging-house at precisely one o'clock the next day.

"I'll go right up to Mr. Davenport's room," he said to the negro boy at the door.

"All right, sir, but I don't think you'll find Mr. Davenport up there,"

replied the servant, glancing at a brown envelope on the hat-stand.

Larcher saw that it was addressed to Murray Davenport. "When did that telegram come?" he inquired.

"Last evening."

"It must be the one I sent. And he hasn't got it yet! Do you mean he hasn't been in?"

Heavy slippered footsteps in the rear of the hall announced the coming of somebody, who proved to be a rather fat woman in a soiled wrapper, with tousled light hair, flabby face, pale eyes, and a worried but kindly look. Larcher had seen her before; she was the landlady.

"Do you know anything about Mr. Davenport?" she asked, quickly.

"No, madam, except that I was to call on him here at one o'clock."

"Oh, then, he may be here to meet you. When did you make that engagement?"

"On Tuesday, when I was here last! Why?--What's the matter?"

"Tuesday? I was in hopes you might 'a' made it since. Mr. Davenport hasn't been home for two days!"

"Two days! Why, that's rather strange!"

"Yes, it is; because he never stayed away overnight without he either told me beforehand or sent me word. He was always so gentlemanly about saving me trouble or anxiety."

"And this time he said nothing about it?"

"Not a word. He went out day before yesterday at nine o'clock in the morning, and that's the last we've seen or heard of him. He didn't carry any grip, or have his trunk sent for; he took nothing but a parcel wrapped in brown paper."

"Well, I can't understand it. It's after one o'clock now--If he doesn't soon turn up--What do you think about it?"

"I don't know what to think about it. I'm afraid it's a case of mysterious disappearance--that's what I think!"

CHAPTER VIII.

MR. LARCHER INQUIRES

Larcher and the landlady stood gazing at each other in silence. Larcher spoke first.

"He's always prompt to the minute. He may be coming now."

The young man went out to the stoop and looked up and down the street.

But no familiar figure was in sight. He turned back to the landlady.

"Perhaps he left a note for me on the table," said Larcher. "I have the freedom of his room, you know."

"Go up and see, then. I'll go with you."

The landlady, in climbing the stairs, used a haste very creditable in a person of her amplitude. Davenport's room appeared the same as ever.

None of his belongings that were usually visible had been packed away or covered up. Books and ma.n.u.script lay on his table. But there was nothing addressed to Larcher or anybody else.

"It certainly looks as if he'd meant to come back soon," remarked the landlady.