"Guthrie!" she said, blushing. "You mean Guthrie?"
"Ah! Guthrie," cried the doctor, triumphantly. "You know my old friend, Lawrence Guthrie? He is in England?"
"He has never left it, to my knowledge," said the girl with sudden doubt.
"Foolish me," exclaimed Lepardo. "It was his father that lives abroad, in the East—Bagdad—Cairo."
"Constantinople," corrected Miss Maitland.
"Still the old foolish," rumbled her odd visitor. "Always the old fool. To be certain, it was Constantinople."
A curious gleam had crept into the keen eyes that twinkled behind the pebbles.
"He used to say to me, the Guthrie père, 'I send that boy Turkish pipes and ornaments and curiosities for his room. I wonder if that bad fellow'"—Dr. Lepardo poked a jesting finger at the girl—"'I wonder if he sell them.'"
"I'm sure he wouldn't," flashed Miss Maitland. Then came a sudden cloud upon the young face. "That is—I don't think he would—if he could help it."
"Ah, those money troubles," sighed the old doctor. "But I quite forgot my business, thinking of Lawrence. There has been an—accident at your office, my child. He is quite well. Do not be afraid. Tell me—when did you leave to-night?"