Curtiss.

"Mrs. Lawrence," I asked, "what reason have you to believe that your daughter left the house?"

She started from her reverie, and sat staring at me as though scarce understanding.

"Why," she said at last, "what else could she have done? She has disappeared——"

"You're sure she isn't concealed somewhere about the place?"

"Concealed?" and she paled a little under my eyes. "Oh, no; that's impossible! We've searched everywhere!"

"And you think she went of her own free will?"

"She could scarcely have been abducted," she retorted. "Marcia is a strong girl, and a single scream would have alarmed the house."

"That's true," I agreed. "Your room is near hers?"

"Just across the hall."

The wish flashed into my brain to look through the house; perhaps I should be able to arrange it.

"There's no pit or hole or trap or anything of that sort into which she could have fallen?"

"Oh, no; nothing of the sort."

"Nor closet nor chest into which she could have accidentally locked herself?" I went on, remembering the fate of the bride in the old song.

"No; besides, we've looked in them all. We've searched everywhere—every corner. She's not in the house—I'm quite sure of that."

"And yet you say she loved Mr. Curtiss?"

"Loved him devotedly."

"Then what possible reason could she have for deserting him? Why should she——"

A knock at the door interrupted me. Mrs. Lawrence, who was sitting nearest it, rose quickly and opened it. I caught a glimpse, in the semi-darkness of the hall, of a woman in a maid's cap and apron. She gave her mistress a letter, whispering, as she did so, a swift sentence in her ear.

I heard Mrs. Lawrence's low exclamation of surprise, as she held the letter up 

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