And this was Louis Vane's epitaph.
While Laurel directed her faltering steps to the editor's up-town residence, all unconscious that the finger of Fate was pointing the way.
Mr. Gordon was one of the most successful editors and publishers of the day, and his brown-stone house on one of the fashionable avenues of the great city looked like a palace to Laurel's unaccustomed eyes. She went slowly up the broad steps and rang the bell a little nervously, feeling her courage desert her at thought of the interview with the stern editor. No thought came to her that her first meeting with that august personage would be in a darker, more fateful hour than this.
The smart serving-man who opened the door stared at our simply clad heroine a little superciliously. He could not recognize a lady apart from a fine dress.
"I wish to see Mr. Gordon, please," Laurel said, with quiet dignity.
"Mr. Gordon is out, mem," was the disappointing reply.
"Where is he gone? When will he come back?" exclaimed Laurel, in piteous disappointment.
"He's gone into the country, and he won't be back until to-night," was the concise reply.
The day was warm, but the girl shivered as if the ground had been swept from beneath her feet by the icy blast of winter. An unconscious cry broke from her quivering lips, and she clasped her little hands tightly together.
"Oh, what shall I do now?" she moaned, despairingly.