The front door was unlatched, as it had always been in the old days; he entered and went upstairs, knocked on the familiar door. But a strange voice answered him, a strange young man lived in there, who knew nothing whatever of Lawrence Iverson.
He made a few other enquiries in the house, but without result.
He was on his way home, walking up Fifth Avenue while he watched for his bus, when he passed a familiar corner, and he decided to call upon Miss Waters. She was a link with the old days.
There at least nothing was changed. She sat as usual in the dusty old studio, and she herself was as dusty, as wrinkled, as flustered as before. And inordinately delighted to see him. She even wept.
“I hardly ever see Rosaleen,” she said. “Once in a great, great while, on a Sunday, she drops in. But I don’t blame her, poor girl! She’s so busy and so worried.... You don’t know——”
She was obliged to stop and dry her eyes.
“You don’t know how much I miss those old days!” she said. “I always loved Rosaleen like my own child.... Poor girl! I never saw much of her during her married life. Her husband and I were not—very congenial. But there’s always been such a bond between us, Mr. Landry! I can’t help saying to you that I think that marriage was a mistake!”
“Not much doubt about that! Do you happen to know where the—the fellow’s gone?”
“No. I never enquired. And I haven’t kept track of the old crowd.”
Poor soul! Not one of the “old crowd” except Miss Mell had ever come near her.