t," said Mr. Jenks.

Baffly put George Tresslyn to bed and then called up Mr. Dodge's favourite
club. He never called up the office except as a last resort. If Mr. Dodge
wasn't to be found at any one of his nine clubs, or at certain
restaurants, it was then time for calling up the office. Mr. Dodge was not
in the club, but he had left word that if any one called him up he could
be found at his office.

"Put him to bed and send for Dr. Thorpe," was Simmy's order a few minutes
later.

"I've put 'im to bed, sir."

"Out of his head, you say?"

"I said, 'Put 'im to bed, sir,'" shouted Baffly.

"I'll be home in half-an-hour, Baffly."

Simmy called up Anne Thorpe at once and reported that George had been
found and was now in his rooms. He would call up later on. She was not to
worry,--and good-bye!

It appears that George Tresslyn had been missing from the house near
Washington Square since seven o'clock on the previous evening. At that
hour he left his bed, to which Dr. Bates had ordered him, and made off in
the cold, sleety night, delirious with the fierce fever that was consuming
him. As soon as his plight was discovered, Anne called up Simmy Dodge and
begged him to go out in search of her sick, and now irresponsible brother.
In his delirium, George repeatedly had muttered threats against Braden
Thorpe for the cruel and inhuman "slashing of the most beautiful, the most
perfect body in all the world," "marking for life the sweetest girl that
God ever let live"; and that he would have to account to him for "the
dirty work he had done."

Acting on this hint, Simmy at once looked up Braden Thorpe and put him on
his guard. Thorpe laughed at his fears, and promptly joined in the search
for the sick man. They thought of Lutie, of course, and hurried to her
small apartment. She was not at home. Her maidservant said that she did
not know where she could be found. Mrs. Tresslyn had gone out alone at
half-past seven, to dine with friends, but had left no instructions,--a
most unusual omission, according to the young woman.

It was a raw, gusty night. A fine, penetrating sleet cut the face, and the
sharp wind drove straight to the marrow of the most warmly clad. Tresslyn
was wandering about the streets, witless yet dominated by a great purpose,
racked with pain and blind with fever, insufficiently protected against
the gale that met his big body as he trudged doggedly into it in quest
of--what? He had left Anne's home witho