to him with the
letter in her hand.

"He's written to you then," he said, at sight of it.

"Yes."

"I had a note from him this afternoon at the office, asking me to hold
in abeyance for the time being the trust that Ben had left me and
returning the key of the house to me for safekeeping."

"Has he already gone?"

"I suppose so; I don't know."

"We must find out." She caught up her wraps and began to put them on.
Sherrill hesitated, then assented; and they went round the block
together to the Corvet house. The shades, Constance saw as they
approached, were drawn; their rings at the doorbell brought no
response. Sherrill, after a few instants' hesitation, took the key
from his pocket and unlocked the door and they went in. The rooms, she
saw, were all in perfect order; summer covers had been put upon the
furniture; protecting cloths had been spread over the beds up-stairs.
Her father tried the water and the gas, and found they had been turned
off. After their inspection, they came out again at the front door,
and her father closed it with a snapping of the spring lock.

Constance, as they walked away, turned and looked back at the old
house, gloomy and dark among its newer, fresher-looking neighbors; and
suddenly she choked, and her eyes grew wet. That feeling was not for
Uncle Benny; the drain of days past had exhausted such a surge of
feeling for him. That which she could not wink away was for the boy
who had come to that house a few weeks ago and for the man who just now
had gone.

CHAPTER XIII

THE THINGS FROM CORVET'S POCKETS

"Miss Constance Sherrill,
Harbor Springs, Michigan."

The address, in large scrawling letters, was written across the brown
paper of the package which had been brought from the post office in the
little resort village only a few moments before. The paper covered a
shoe box, crushed and old, bearing the name of S. Klug, Dealer in Fine
Shoes, Manitowoc, Wisconsin. The box, like the outside wrapping, was
carefully tied with string.

Constance, knowing no one in Manitowoc and surprised at the nature of
the package, glanced at the postmark on the brown paper which she had
removed; it too was stamped Manitowoc. She cut the strings about the
box and took off the cover. A black and brown dotted silk cloth filled
the box; and, seeing it, Constance caught her breath. It was--at least
it was very like--the muffler which Uncle Benny used to wear in winter.
Remembering