"What's that?" interrupted Hemming.
"I said that I loved her," retorted O'Rourke, defiantly.
"Go ahead with the story," said the Englishman.
"When the time came for my departure," continued O'Rourke, "and the carriage was waiting at the curb, I just kissed her hand and left without saying a word. I came North and got doctors to examine me. They said that my heart and lungs were right as could be, and that the rest of my gear would straighten up in time. They promised even a return of my complexion with the departure of the malaria from my blood. But I must live a quiet life for awhile, they said; so to begin the quiet life I returned to Tampa, and that hospital. But I did not find the girl."
"Was she hiding?" inquired Hemming. "Perhaps she had heard some stories to your discredit."
"No," said O'Rourke, "she had resigned, and left the town, with her father. Evidently her troubles were ended—just as mine were begun."
"What did you do about it?" asked Hemming, whose interest was thoroughly aroused.
"Oh, I looked for her everywhere—in Boston, and New York, and Baltimore, and Washington, and read all the city directories," replied the disconsolate lover, "but I do not know her father's first name, and you have no idea what a lot of Hudsons there are in the world."
Hemming discarded the butt of his cigar, and eyed his friend contemplatively.
"I suppose you looked in the registers of the Tampa hotels?" he queried. "The old chap's name and perhaps his address would be there."