It was at this time that he began his pilgrimages up and down Fifth Avenue, and it was also about this time that he acknowledged himself to be a drivelling, silly, sentimental idiot—worse even than the drooping No. 7.
In the course of his investigations he dropped in to see No. 8 at the hat store; he talked insurance with No. 11 (and forever afterward had it talked with him, despite all the pains he took to stop it); he ordered a suit of clothes at the tailor shop of No. 6; and he even went so far as to consult No. 1 about having his piano tuned, a proceeding which called for the immediate acquisition of an instrument. (It occurred to him, however, that it might prove to be money well spent, for any man who is thinking of getting married ought to have a grand piano if he can afford it.)
One day, overcoming an aversion, he sauntered up to a place in Broadway and inquired for No. 12. To his amazement, No. 12 seemed a bit hazy as to the existence of such a person as Miss Hildebrand. It was some time before the fellow could call her to mind, and then only when the trial was mentioned.
“Ah, yes,” said he, rapping his brow soundly, “I get you now. The pretty little thing we saw at the trial. Lord, man, how long ago was that? Two months? Well, say, I've seen a couple or three since then that make her look like a last year's bird's-nest. I'm demonstrating for a little cutey in the Follies just at present and she has Miss Hildebrand lashed to the mast. Yellow hair and eyes as blue as—What's your hurry? I'm not busy—got all kinds of time.”
But Sampson “walked out on him,” raging inwardly. It was all he could do to conquer an impulse to kick No. 12. Comparing Alexandra Hildebrand with a “little cutey in the Follies”! And forgetting her, too! Unspeakable!
He discovered James Hildebrand a day or two later. The old man was living in a small hotel just off Broadway, in the upper Forties. An actor friend of Sampson's was living in the same hotel, and it was through him that he learned that Hildebrand had been stopping there for nearly two months, quite alone. A surprisingly pretty young woman had called to see him on two or three occasions. According to Sampson's informant, the old gentleman had just concluded a real estate deal running into the hundreds of thousands and was soon to return to Europe. This was most regrettable, lamented the actor, for he couldn't remember ever having seen a prettier girl than Hildebrand's visitor—who, he had found out at the desk, was a relative of some description.
A simple process would have been to interview old Mr. Hildebrand, but Sampson's pride and good-breeding proved sufficiently strong and steadfast in the crisis. He held himself aloof.
A week later he saw Mr. Hildebrand off on one of the trans-Atlantic liners. Mr. Hildebrand was not aware of the fact that he was being seen off by any one, however, and Sampson was quite positively certain that no one else was there for the purpose. There was no sign of Alexandra.
He went abroad that summer.... Early in the autumn he was back in New York, resolved to be a fool no longer. No doubt she had married the chap she loved—and was living happily, contentedly in luxurious splendour supplied by Sloane's—as long ago, no doubt, as the early spring it may have happened.
His heart had once ached for her as an orphan, but all that would now be altered if she had taken unto herself a husband. Somehow one ceases to be an orphan the instant one marries. You never think of a fatherless and motherless wife as an orphan. An orphan is some one you are expected to feel sorry for.