I am in sore trouble, and want your advice. Dolly has mysteriously disappeared. One night, three weeks ago, she left the studio and went home. After dressing she again went out, and since then nothing has been seen or heard of her. I have searched everywhere, and made strenuous efforts through the police and by advertisements to find some trace of her, but all seems futile. She has disappeared completely. Yet somehow I cannot think her silence is intentional, or that she has run away with some male companion, for she was not addicted to flirtation. You are one of her admirers, I know, so I want your advice as to the best course to pursue. I’m at my wits’ ends, old fellow. Write and tell me what to do. I must find her; I shall never rest until I ascertain definitely what has become of her.
“Good heavens! What an extraordinary thing,” ejaculated Trethowen, when he had concluded reading.
“Dolly missing! She might be dead for aught we know; yet such a fate cannot have befallen her. She cared for me a little, I know,” he soliloquised. “Perhaps she had hoped that I should ask her to become my wife. Why,” he gasped, as a thought suddenly occurred to him, “suppose she has committed suicide because I did not reciprocate the love she offered. Good God! if such were the case, I should never forgive myself—never.”
Pausing, he gazed blankly at the paper in his hand.
“Yet—yet, after all,” he continued thoughtfully, “I love Valérie, and shall marry no woman but her. There can be no reason why I should be miserable or bother my head over the mystery.”
Chapter Twenty One.
Purely Fin de Siècle.
“Why are you so glum this morning, Jack? Hang it, you look as if you were going to attend my funeral instead of my wedding.”