"Gone where?" asked Spence stupidly.

"That," said Aunt Caroline, "she leaves you to inform me."

With the feeling of being someone else and acting under compulsion he took the few written lines which she held out to him. "Dear Aunt Caroline," he read, "Benis will tell you why I am going. But I cannot go without thanking you. I'll never forget how good you have been--Desire."

"I had a feeling," said Aunt Caroline with mournful triumph. "It never deceives me, never! As I pa.s.sed our dear girl's room this morning, I said, 'She is not there'--and she wasn't!"

"I think you mentioned that the door was open."

"That has nothing to do with it. I--"

"Where did you find this note?"

"On her dressing table. When you went into the gar-den, I went upstairs. I had a feeling--"

"Was there nothing else? No note for me?"

"No," in surprise. "She says you know all about it. Don't you?"

"Something, not all."

Aunt Caroline was, upon occasion, quite capable of meeting a crisis.

Remembering the neglected coffee, she poured a cup for each of them.

"Here," said she, "drink this. You look as if you needed it. I must say, Benis, that you don't act as if you knew anything, but if you do, you'd better tell me. Where is Desire?"

"I don't know."

"Umph! Then what you do know won't help us to find her. Finding her is the first thing. I wonder," thoughtfully, "if she told John?"

A wintry smile pa.s.sed over the professor's lips.

"I shall ask him," he said.

Aunt Caroline proceeded with her own deducing. "There is no one else she could have told," she reasoned. "She did not tell you. She did not tell me. Naturally, she would not tell Mary. And a girl nearly always tells somebody. So it must be John. I hope you are sufficiently ashamed of yourself, Benis? I told you Desire wouldn't understand your attentions to Mary. Though I admit I did not dream she would take them quite so seriously. I don't envy you your explanations."

"Aunt--"

"Wait a moment, Benis. On second thought, if I were you I would not explain at all. Simply tell her she is mistaken and stick to that. She may believe you. Promise her that you will never see Mary again--and you won't" (grimly) "if I have anything to say about it. Desire will come around. I have a feeling--"

"My dear Aunt!"

"Let me proceed, Benis. I have a feeling that she will forgive you--once. But let this be a lesson. Desire is not a girl who will forgive twice."

"You are all wrong, Aunt," with weary patience. "But it doesn't matter.

Say nothing about this. I am going to see John."

"Not before you drink that coffee."

Benis obediently drank. Hurry would not mend what had happened.

"She has taken her travelling coat and hat," pursued Aunt Caroline.

"Her train slippers, that taupe jersey-cloth suit, some fresh blouses, her dressing case, her night things and your photo off the dressing table."

Benis smiled, a wry smile, and pushed back his cup.

"You don't look fit to go anywhere," said Aunt Caroline irritably. "Why can't you call John on the 'phone?"

"That would be quite modern," said Benis. "But--I think I'll see him. I shan't be long."

It never once occurred to the professor, you will notice, that he might find John vanished also. His obsessing thought had not been able to change his essential knowledge of either Desire or John. If Desire had gone, she had gone because she could not stay. But she had gone alone.

Just what determining thing had happened to make her flight imperative, Benis could not guess. But he would not have been human if he had not blamed the other man. "The fool has bungled it!" he thought. "Lost control of his precious feelings, perhaps--broken through--said something--frightened her." We may be sure that he cursed John in his heart very completely.

But when he entered John's office and saw John he began to doubt even this. There was no guilt on the doctor's face--no sign of apprehension or regret, no tremor of knowledge. An angry-eyed young man looked up from a letter he was reading with nothing more serious than injured wonder in his gaze.

"Can you beat it?" asked John disgustedly, waving the letter. "Aren't women the limit? Here's this one going off without a word, or an excuse, or anything. Just gone! And a silly note thrown on my desk. I tell you women have absolutely no sense of business obligation--positively not!"

Spence restrained himself.

"You are speaking of--?"

"That nurse of mine, Miss Watkins. Never a word about leaving yesterday, and today vanished--vamoosed--simply non est! Look at what she says.--"

Spence pushed the letter aside.

"There is something more important than that, John," he said quietly, "Desire has left me."

The two men stared at each other. Spence was the first to speak.

"There is no doubt about it. She is gone. She has not told us where. I see that you do not know."

John shook his head.

"There may be a note for you in the morning's mail." Benis was coldly brief. "I must know where she is. If you can help me, let me know." He turned to the door.

With difficulty John found his voice.

"I knew nothing of this, Benis."

"I realize that," dryly. "But you may be responsible for it. She had no idea of leaving yesterday."

"Benis, I swear--"

"It is not necessary. Besides," bitterly, "you could afford to be patient. You felt fairly--sure, didn't you?"

"Sure! No, I--"

"You mean you merely hoped?"