"I--I think we'd better go back now," she said gently.

He escorted her to the house without quite knowing how he found the way. At the door she said:--

"Don't you understand, Don?"

"Yes," he answered; "for the first time."

"And you'll not think too badly of me?"

"It isn't anything you can help," he answered. "It isn't anything I can help, either."

"Don't think too badly of Dad," she pleaded. "He'll cool down soon, and then--you must come and see me again."

She held out her hand, and he took it. Then swiftly she turned and went into the house. He hurried back to the path--to the path where on Sat.u.r.day afternoons he had walked with Sally Winthrop.

CHAPTER XXVIII

SEEING

He saw now. Blind fool that he had been, month after month! He sank on a bench and went back in his thoughts to the first time he had ever seen Sally Winthrop. She had reminded him that it was luncheon time, and when he had gone out she had been waiting for him. She must have been waiting for him, or he never would have found her. And she had known he was hungry.

"She'd want to be hungry with you," Frances had said.

How had Sally Winthrop known that he was hungry? She had known, and had shared with him what she had.

Then incident after incident in the office came back to him. It was she who had taught him how to work. It was for her that he had worked.

Frances had used another phrase: "She'd be almost glad you had no money."

There was only one woman in the world he knew who would care for a man like that--if she cared at all. That brought him to his feet again. He glared about as if searching for her in the dark. Why wasn't she here now, so that he might ask her if she did care? She had no business to go off and leave him like this! He did not know where she was.

Don struck a match and looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty.

Somehow, he must find her. He had her old address, and it was possible that she had left word where she had gone. At any rate, this was the only clue he had.

He made his way back to the Avenue, and, at a pace that at times almost broke into a run, went toward the club and the first taxi he saw. In twenty minutes he was standing on the steps where he had last seen her. She had wished him to say "good-bye"; but he remembered that he had refused to say "good-bye."

The landlady knew Miss Winthrop's address, but she was not inclined to give it to him. At first she did not like the expression in his eyes.

He was too eager.

"Seems to me," she argued, "she'd have told parties where she was going if she wanted them to know."

"This is very important," he insisted.

"Maybe it's a lot more important to you than it is to her," she replied.

"But--"

"You can leave your name and address, and I'll write to her," she offered.

"Look here," Don said desperately. "Do you want to know what my business is with her?"

"It's none of my business, but--"

"I want to ask her to marry me," he broke in. "That's a respectable business, isn't it?"

He reached in his pocket and drew out a bill. He slipped it into her hand.

"Want to marry her?" exclaimed the woman. "Well, now, I wouldn't stand in the way of that. Will you step in while I get the address?"

"I'll wait here. Only hurry. There may be a late train."

She was back in a few seconds, holding a slip of paper in her hand.

"It's to Brenton, Maine, she's gone."

Don grabbed the paper.

"Thanks."

He was halfway down the steps when she called after him:--

"Good luck to ye, sir."

"Thanks again," he called back.

Then he gave his order to the driver:--

"To the Grand Central."

Don found that he could take the midnight train to Boston and connect there with a ten-o'clock train next morning. This would get him into Portland in time for a connection that would land him at Brenton at four that afternoon. He went back to the house to pack his bag. As he opened the door and went in, it seemed as if she might already be there--as if she might be waiting for him. Had she stepped forward to greet him and announce that dinner was ready, he would not have been greatly surprised. It was as if she had been here all this last year.

But it was only Nora who came to greet him.

"I'm going away to-night for a few days--perhaps for two weeks," he told Nora.

"Yes, sir."

"I'll wire you what my plans are--either to-morrow or next day."

"And it is to be soon, sir?"

"I can't tell you for sure, Nora, until I've cleared up one or two little matters; but--you can wish me luck, anyway."

"I'll do that, sir."

"And the house is ready, isn't it?"