Harcourt followed her out of doors to a little brick building of one room, standing on the lawn in the rear of the irregular house. She opened the door and admitted him. It was a rude place, heated by an iron stove, and furnished with a writing-desk, a book shelf, a table, an armchair and two or three other chairs.
“Mr. Harcourt,” she inquired, when they were seated, “did you know this Mr. Amos Merritt, of Washington?”
“Very slightly,” answered the young man.
“The reason why I asked was this—he seems to be so anxious to find you. In every letter he has written, enclosing checks, he has inquired if we had heard from you. And I must also add that we, too, often returned the question, and asked if he had received news of the missing man; for you were a missing man for months, Mr. Harcourt.”
“I know it; but my dear Miss Wynthrop, I cannot just now fully explain my absence.”
“I do not ask you to do so. Your mother thought that you were at college. She pined to see you, especially at Christmas; but she thought that you remained at college to pursue your studies through the holidays.”
“But you knew better?”
“Of course we did; for I wrote to President Ewell to inquire for you, and learned that you had not been there since last summer.”
“And you did not tell my mother?”
“Oh, no! We could not. We said nothing, but left her to that delusion, as to others.”