“Any news of Will Harcourt?” she inquired as she shook hands with him.
“None whatever. We must do now what we should have done in the beginning—advertise for him,” replied the lawyer.
“You mean in the personal columns of the daily papers and by initials and guarded hints?”
“No. I mean by a straightforward advertisement in the advertising columns for information respecting the whereabouts of William Everard Harcourt, late of Lone Lodge, West Virginia, who left his home on the Isle of Storms, coast of Maryland, on the fifteenth of last November, and has not been heard from since, and offering a large reward for intelligence that shall lead to the discovery of his fate.”
“That will be making his mysterious disappearance very public.”
“Yes; but it is absolutely the only hope left of finding him.”
“But if this advertisement should come to the knowledge of his poor mother?”
“My dear lady, Dorothy Harcourt, by all accounts, is not in a mental condition to appreciate it. She thinks her son is at his college. She has forgotten all recent events—that is, if we may credit the report of Miss Wynthrop.”
“Yes, I know. Well, since it is so absolutely necessary you may insert the advertisement in all the papers.”
“Now, my dear child, there is another matter on which I wish to speak to you. You, who were a very queen of society, why do you seclude yourself from the world here in the midst of Washington City in the height of the fashionable season? Why do you not send your cards to your friends who are present here, and would be so glad to invite you to their parties.”