In Liverpool, disquieting telegrams and letters awaited him. No trace of the Comtesse. The Princess wrote to say that she knew nothing of Helène’s whereabouts. She had left a short note on leaving Weimar, but it contained no reference to where she was going. She had drawn some money out of the bank, and that was all she could learn there. Her maid knew nothing definite.
Mr. Tyler had written in like manner. The police of Dresden, Munich, Berlin and Vienna had been communicated with, but with no results. Detectives had been employed to no purpose. Helène seemed to have disappeared from off the face of the earth.
“The idiots!” muttered John in anger, “they couldn’t find the Great Pyramid in a ten-acre lot.”
At Weimar he spent hours going over everything with Donald; but what that faithful servitor reported served only to deepen the mystery. One thing, however, was clear—Helène had left in a very unhappy state of mind.
He wrote an urgent note to the Princess requesting an interview. The interview was a painful one to both. The Princess broke down and bemoaned her bitter fate—her inability to protect her friend. She told him the whole story of the scene in the reception-room and its cause.
Faugh! The thing was nauseating to John. What a Court! What people these princelets were! He guessed instinctively that it was Witherspoon who was responsible for the article. He would settle with that fellow another time. He left the Princess feeling no great respect for her courage, and more resolved than ever to leave no stone unturned.
And now he began a systematic hunt, on his own account, throughout almost all Europe. Advertisements were printed in the principal newspapers. Police records and hotel registers examined, detectives employed. Blue-eyed girls who read Helène’s description in the advertisements dreamed thrilling romances and envied the maid who, no doubt, was the heiress to some enormously rich uncle. Girls with gray eyes thought them blue and weaved tales of a Prince Charming coming to set them free. Old maids sighed and old men smiled. But, with all the interest that was excited, and despite the lavish expenditure of money, the real Helène remained undiscovered.
Weeks went by and Morton became very anxious. He grew nervous and restless. As he walked the streets he would examine every young woman he passed with quick, furtive glances in the vain hope that one of them might be Helène.
He consulted with Mr. Tyler frequently and that wise man told him not to worry. The girl herself, he felt sure, would write to him. John clung desperately to this suggestion. He began calculating the time it would take a letter to get back to him from America should she have written him there. Judge Lowell had his instructions and would cable him immediately on its receipt. The thought calmed him greatly and he thanked Tyler. He would wait in Weimar until the end of February, by which time he reckoned a letter might arrive in Cleveland.
Tyler’s judgment was justified. On the twenty-seventh Morton received a cable from his lawyer informing him that a letter from Germany had been received and asking for instructions. He promptly cabled back to open the letter and wire him the whereabouts of the writer.