Miss Hazel murmured incoherent congratulations, and tried not to look as shocked as she felt. In her day, no lady would have made so delicate an announcement in any such off-hand manner as this. Constance received it in the spirit in which it was given.
“Who’s the man?” she inquired, as she shook hands with Mrs. Eustace.
“You don’t know him—Harry Eastman, a friend of Jerry’s. Jerry doesn’t know it yet, and I had to confide in someone. Oh, it’s no secret; Harry cabled home—he wanted to get it announced so I couldn’t change my mind. You see he only had a three weeks’ vacation; he took a fast boat, landed at Cherbourg, followed us the whole length of France, and caught us in Lucerne just after Jerry had gone. I couldn’t refuse him after he’d taken such a lot of trouble. That’s what detained us: we had expected to come a week ago. And now—” by a rapid change of expression she became tragic—“We’ve lost Jerry Junior!”
“Lost Jerry Junior!” Constance’s tone was interested. “What has become of him?”
“We haven’t an idea. He’s been spirited off—vanished from the earth and left no trace. Really, we’re beginning to be afraid he’s been captured by brigands. That head waiter, that Gustavo, knows where he is, but we can’t get a word out of him. He tells a different story every ten minutes. I looked in the register to see if by chance he’d left an address there, and what do you think I found?”
“Oh!” said Constance; there was a world of illumination in her tone. “What did you find?” she asked, hastily suppressing every emotion but polite curiosity.
“‘Abraham Lincoln’ in Jerry’s hand-writing!”
“Really!” Constance dimpled irrepressibly. “You are sure Jerry wrote it?”
“It was his writing; and I showed it to Gustavo, and what do you think he said?”
Constance shook her head.