delightful music. I
wish you could come, Hope."

"He wanted to meet me, then," said Hope drearily to herself as she took
her way home. "It's just as I always thought: he cared for me only as a
friend, and was kind to me because I was poor and friendless. He must
have grown fond of Truda, after all. She is so bright and amusing! I
suppose she showed him tricks and made him laugh; and he is so serious
himself that he needs some one cheerful. I hope he will be very, very
happy." Her eyes smarted suddenly, and a sob swelled in her throat.
"But oh, I wish I had never met him! I wish I was not so wretched!
Truda had so many other things, and I could have made him happy. It is
hateful of me, but I believe I should make a nicer wife. I should have
been so good to him! Oh Ralph! Ralph!"

Alas, poor Hope! She pulled down her thick veil, and cried quietly
behind its shelter as she wended her way home through the busy streets.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

AN UNEXPECTED CLUE.

Ten days passed by and brought no news of Barney. Steve devoted every
spare moment to the search, the Hermit was unremitting in his efforts,
but with the best will in the world they proved but poor detectives.
The tobacconist remained stubbornly uncommunicative, and as Madge would
not have recognised Barney's companion if she had seen him, it was
little use watching the shop. The insurance clerks were interviewed
again and again, but Barney had been prudent in one respect at least--he
had not breathed a word of his betting transactions in the office. He
had vaguely mentioned "a friend of mine"--"a fellow I know," but had
given no names, and the consensus of opinion was that he must have
picked up acquaintances in the luncheon hour, when, boy-like, he was
fond of wandering about from place to place. The Hermit lunched
diligently in all the principal restaurants in the neighbourhood of the
office, and made a point of entering into conversation with his
companions, but he failed to meet any one who remembered Barney.

"I am at a standstill. I don't know what to do next. I am afraid there
is very little of the Sherlock Holmes about me, Miss Philippa," he said
dejectedly on the tenth afternoon, as he detailed the history of the
day's search. It had become a custom for him to come upstairs to tell
his story and to be refreshed with tea and scones, and the girls
welcomed his advent as a break in the long, anxious day. So far he had
brought no