, nor that she was a musician.
How could he answer such questions about an utter stranger, and yet how
could he not answer them, under the circumstances?

And she wore no hat, nor cloak. That would be a strange way to arrive at a
dinner How could she accept? He was settling his coat into place when a
queer little bulge attracted his attention to an inside pocket.
Impatiently he pulled out a pair of long white gloves. They were his
sister's, and he now remembered she had given them to him to carry the
night before, on the way home from a reception, she having removed them
because it was raining. He looked at them with a sudden inspiration. Of
course! Why had he not thought of that? He hurried into his sister's room
to make a selection of a few necessities for the emergency--only to have
his assurance desert him at the very threshold. The room was immaculate,
with no feminine finery lying about. Cornelia Dunham's maid was well
trained. The only article that seemed out of place was a hand-box on a
chair near the door. It bore the name of a fashionable milliner, and
across the lid was pencilled in Cornelia's large, angular hand, "To be
returned to Madame Dollard's." He caught up the box and strode over to the
closet. There was no time to lose, and this box doubtless contained a hat
of some kind. If it was to be returned, Cornelia would think it had been
called for, and no further inquiry would be made about the matter. He
could call at Madame's and settle the bill without his sister's knowledge.

He poked back into the closet and discovered several wraps and evening
cloaks of more or less elaborate style, but the thought came to him that
perhaps one of these would be recognized as Cornelia's. He closed the door
hurriedly and went down to a large closet under the stairs, from which he
presently emerged with his mother's new black rain-coat. He patted his
coat-pocket to be sure he had the gloves, seized his hat, and hurried
back to the carriage, the hat-box in one hand and his mother's rain-coat
dragging behind him. His only anxiety was to get out before the butler saw
him.

As he closed the door, there flashed over him, the sudden possibility that
the girl had gone. Well, perhaps that would be the best thing that could
happen and would save him a lot of trouble; yet to his amazement he found
that the thought filled him with a sense of disappointment. He did not
want her to be gone. He peered anxiously into the carriage, and