d him under its control
ever since he had taken the determination to satisfy his doubts by an
interview with Miss Dare.

Ringing the bell of the rambling old mansion that spread out its wide
extensions through the vines and bushes of an old-fashioned and most
luxuriant garden, he waited the issue with beating heart. A
respectable-looking negro servant came to the door.

"Is Mr. Orcutt in?" he asked; "or, if not, Miss Dare? I have a message
from Mr. Ferris and would be glad to see one of them."

This, in order to ascertain at a word if the lady was at home.

"Miss Dare is not in," was the civil response, "and Mr. Orcutt is very
busily engaged; but if you will step into the parlor I will tell him you
are here."

"No," returned the disappointed detective, handing her the note he held
in his hand. "If your master is busy I will not disturb him." And,
turning away, he went slowly down the steps.

"If I only knew where she was gone!" he muttered, bitterly.

But he did not consider himself in a position to ask.

Inwardly chafing over his ill-luck, Mr. Byrd proceeded with reluctant
pace to regain the street, when, hearing the gate suddenly click, he
looked up, and saw advancing toward him a young gentleman of a
peculiarly spruce and elegant appearance.

"Ha! another visitor for Miss Dare," was the detective's natural
inference. And with a sudden movement he withdrew from the path, and
paused as if to light his cigar in the shadow of the thick bushes that
grew against the house.

In an instant the young stranger was on the stoop. Another, and he had
rung the bell, which was answered almost as soon as his hand dropped
from the knob.

"Is Miss Dare in?" was the inquiry, uttered in loud and cheery tones.

"No, sir. She is spending a few days with Miss Tremaine," was the clear
and satisfactory reply. "Shall I tell her you have been here?"

"No. I will call myself at Miss Tremaine's," rejoined the gentleman.
And, with a gay swing of his cane and a cheerful look overhead where the
stars were already becoming visible, he sauntered easily off, followed
by the envious thoughts of Mr. Byrd.

"Miss Tremaine," repeated the latter, musingly. "Who knows Miss
Tremaine?"

While he was asking himself this question, the voice of the young man
rose melodiously in a scrap of old song, and instantly Mr. Byrd
recognized in the seeming stranger the well-known tenor singer of the
church he had himself attended the Sunday before--a ge