reckless Quesada--lured by
the same quest. And this was not a dream--it was not a story--it was
dead, sober reality. The world about him now was no vision; he saw,
felt, and smelled it; the other was equally real, he had shared in a
struggle to possess it, he had the testimony of his eyes to
substantiate it, and the logic of his brain to prove it. If the wound
upon his head was real, if this girl in search of whom he was now
bent was real, if that within his pocket was real--if, in brief,
he were not a lunatic in complete subjection to a delusion--then,
however extravagant it might appear, all was real.

The fact which made it substantial, as nothing else did, was the
girl--the girl and all she meant to him. It must be a very genuine
emotion to turn the world topsy-turvy for him as it had. This
afternoon for instance, it was she who filled the sunbeams with golden
light, who warmed the blue sky until it seemed of hazy fairy stuff,
who sang among the leaves, who urged him on with a power that placed
no limit on distance or time. Within less than a day she had so
obsessed him as to cause him to focus upon the passion the entire
strength of his being. The fortune of gold and jewels before him was
great, but if necessary he could sacrifice it without hesitancy to
bring her nearer to him. That was secondary and so was everything
which lay between him and that one great need.

He sought out the telephone exchange at Belmont at once and was
referred to the superintendent. He found the latter a brisk,
unimaginative man--a creature of rules and regulations.

"Can't do it," he said gruffly.

Wilson went a little further into details. The girl was very possibly
a prisoner--very possibly in danger.

"Go to the police with your story."

"That means the newspapers," answered Wilson. "I don't wish the affair
made public. I may be altogether wrong in my suspicions, but they are
of such a nature that they ought to be investigated."

"Sorry, but the rule cannot be broken."

Wilson spent fifteen minutes longer with him, but the man impatiently
rose.

"That number is not listed," he said finally, "and under no
circumstances are we allowed to divulge it. You will have to go to the
police if you want help."

But Wilson had no idea of doing that. He still had one chance left--a
ruse which had occurred to him as he left the office. He went down
stairs and to the nearest telephone, where he rang up Information.

"Central?"

"Y