d 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?"

"Everything is ready, sir."

"That's fine. Now I'm going to pack."

His packing finished, Don went downstairs with still an hour or more
on his hands before train-time. But he did not care to go anywhere. He
was absolutely contented here. He was content merely to wander from
room to room. He sat down at the piano in the dark, and for a long
while played to her--played to her just the things he knew she would
like.

It was half-past eleven before he left the house, and then he went
almost reluctantly. She was more here than anywhere in the world
except where he was going. He found himself quite calm about her here.
The moment he came out on the street again he noticed a difference.
His own phrase came back to frighten him:--

"She'd care like that--if she cared at all."

Supposing that after he found her, she did not care?

At the station he wondered if it were best to wire her, but decided
against it. She might run away. It was never possible to tell what a
woman might do, and Sally Winthrop was an adept at concealing herself.
He remembered that period when, although he had been in the same
office with her, she had kept herself as distant as if across the
ocean. She had only to say, "Not at home," and it was as if she said,
"I am not anywhere."

He went to his berth at once, and had, on the whole, a bad night
of it. He asked himself a hundred questions that he could not
answer--that Sally Winthrop alone could answer. Though it was only
lately that he had prided himself on knowing her desires in
everything, he was forced to leave all these questions unanswered.

At ten the next morning he took the train for Portland. At two he was