At last arrived a telegram from Burlington, Vermont. “Come and see me. Clancy.” Grown wary by experience, Carshaw ascertained first that Clancy was really at Burlington. Then he instructed Miss Goodman to telegraph to him in the north, and quitted New York by the night train.
In the sporting columns of an evening paper he read of the sale of his polo ponies. The scribe regretted the suggested disappearance from the game of “one of the best Number Ones” he had ever seen. The Long Island estate was let already, and Mrs. Carshaw would leave her expensive flat when the lease expired.
Early next day he was greeted by Clancy.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Carshaw,” said the little man. “Been here before? No? Charming town. None of the infernal racket of New York about life in Burlington. Any one who got bitten by that bug here would be afflicted like the Gadarene swine and rush into Lake Champlain. Walk to the hotel? It’s a fine morning, and you’ll get some bully views of the Adirondacks as you climb the hill.”
“Winifred is gone. Hasn’t the Bureau kept you informed?”
Clancy sighed.
“I’ve had Winifred on my mind for days,” he said irritably. “Can’t you forget her for half an hour?”
“She’s gone, I tell you. Spirited away the very day I asked her to marry me.”
“Well, well. Why didn’t you ask her sooner?”
“I had to arrange my affairs. I am poor now. How could I marry Winifred under false pretenses?”