On a bright, beautiful summer morning, in the month of July, a lady entered a handsome drug store on Washington street, and asked permission to look at a city directory.
She was a finely formed, brilliant-looking woman, elegantly dressed, and bearing herself with the ease and self-possession of one accustomed to the most cultured circles of society.
A portly gentleman, with a wealth of white hair crowning his shapely head, and wearing gold-bowed spectacles, stepped from behind his desk as the lady made her request, and politely laid the book before her. As he did so, and his keen glance fell upon her face, he started slightly, but was far too well-bred to betray his surprise at her appearance, if he experienced any, and immediately returned to his post at his desk.
But he managed to place himself where he could see his visitor, without being himself observed.
The woman turned to the D’s in the directory, and ran her neatly gloved finger slowly down the line, pausing here and there as a name appeared to attract her special attention.
After carefully searching several pages, she turned back and began to go over the same ground again, while a faint line of perplexity and annoyance appeared between her finely-arched brows.
This second search seemed to be as unsuccessful as the previous one had been, and for the third time she reviewed the list of names under the letter D. It was useless, however; the name she sought was not there. She stood musing for a few moments, then opening her pocket-book—an elegant affair of Russia leather with clasps of gold—she took from it a card to which she referred.
“The name is surely not in the directory,” she murmured.
There was a moment of silence, then the distinguished-looking gentleman behind the desk stepped forward again.
“Did you speak to me, madame?” he inquired, blandly.