"He isn't gone yet--he can't be--he cannot have left Queechy till to-day--he will be in New York for several days yet probably."
"New York!--it may be Boston?"
"No, he would be more likely to go to New York--I am sure he would--he is accustomed to it."
"We might write to both places," said poor Mrs. Rossitur. "I will do it and send them off at once."
"But he might not get the letters," said Fleda thoughtfully,--"he might not dare to ask at the post-office."
His wife looked at that possibility, and then wrung her hands.
"Oh why didn't he give us a clew!"
Fleda put an arm round her affectionately and stood thinking; stood trembling might as well be said, for she was too weak to be standing at all.
"What can we do, dear Fleda?" said Mrs. Rossitur in great distress. "Once out of New York and we can get nothing to him! If he only knew that there is no need, and that it is all over!--"
"We must do everything, aunt Lucy," said Fleda thoughtfully, "and I hope we shall succeed yet. We will write, but I think the most hopeful other thing we could do would be to put advertisements in the newspapers--he would be very likely to see them."