Then, before he could utter a word of protest or amazement, he was left alone in the fiery glow of the blood-red parlor. He looked mechanically at the paper in his hand, tore it in half, and dropping it upon the rug at his feet, turned like one in a trance, and slowly left the house.
CHAPTER XIV. IN CENTRAL PARK.
This life is a Drama, its Plot strange and deep—
We laugh at the Farce—at the Tragedy, weep:—
The acts are surprises—no waits intervene
And only the Author stands back of the scene.
For two months Sir Frederic Atherton had hardly eaten or slept, so great was his grief at Stella's disappearance. No stone had been left unturned by him in the search for Maurice Sinclair and his beautiful victim.
No shadow of doubt as to Stella's unspotted purity, crossed his noble soul, and in despair he sat down to a hasty breakfast at the Club, while he ransacked his brain to find, if possible, some untried scheme for Maurice's capture.