The old man uttered a cry of distress.
"Keith! Keith, my boy!" he moaned. "You will surely not do that? You would not go, and leave the old man to die alone? Oh, Heaven! what have I done that I should be punished so, and deserted in my old age?"
The words touched Keith's heart, and made it ache. He seized the old man's wrinkled hand and pressed it warmly.
"No, Uncle Bernard," he said, slowly, "I will not go and leave you—I will never leave you while you live. But I must search for Beatrix—I must know whether she is living or dead. If she is still alive, I must know where she is, and she must be provided for. You will help me, Uncle Bernard?"
"I will, my boy—I will, indeed. We will devote our lives to that end. We have wasted precious time already. Go at once, Keith. Ah, if I were well, and able to accompany you!"
Keith left the house, his mind absorbed with the one hope of finding his lost darling, poor, heart-broken child! His first step was to insert advertisements in all the daily papers—a few words.
"Beatrix, come home. No matter what may come, I will protect you.
K."
But, alas! poor Beatrix was destined never to see the advertisements; and even had she seen them she would not have obeyed the request, for she dared not risk the lives of other people in that reckless fashion. Keith's next step was to place the matter in the hands of a skilled detective. Then, impelled by a strange intuition, he visited the lepers' hospital. For well he knew Beatrix Dane and her high-strung, sensitive nature; and the conviction had crept into his heart that she would fly to this refuge, believing herself accursed, and intuition, as is apt to be the case, was correct in this instance. Yet, as we already know, Keith was destined to fail in his search.
The old physician in attendance at the hospital was, of course, in perfect ignorance of the existence of Beatrix, and so relieved Keith's anxiety upon that score, for it seemed to him that the knowledge that Beatrix was incarcerated in that horrible place would kill him outright.
He returned home heartsick and despairing, yet conscious of a feeling of gratitude and relief that he had not found her there. He repeated to old Bernard Dane the result of his search, and the old man wept bitter tears. He was very weak and childish now; all the old harshness had disappeared forever, and he was not at all like the hard-hearted old man he had been so short a time ago.