"I will tell you," said Earle. "At first I thought that you had helped her, but now I believe I am mistaken. She has left home unknown to any of us. She has gone abroad as governess." Gregory Leslie gave a little start of incredulity and surprise. "Gone abroad," he repeated; "I can believe that easily; but as governess, I can never imagine that." "She says so. She left two letters, and they both tell the same story." "If I should believe it," said Gregory Leslie, "I should most certainly say, Heaven help the children taught by the fair Doris. Candidly speaking, I should not like to be one of them." "You do not believe it then, Mr. Leslie?" "If you will have me speak frankly, I do not. Of all the young ladies I have ever met, I think her the least likely to become a governess--by choice, that is." Earle looked at him blankly. It had never entered his mind to disbelieve what she had written. That threw a fresh light upon the matter. "Tell me all about it," the artist said, after a few minutes. And Earle did as he was requested. Gregory Leslie listened in silence. "I know nothing about it," he said, after a time. "It is quite natural that you should imagine that I did, but I do not. She has never mentioned it to me. I understand now what you meant by being loyal. Let me say that, for your sake, if she had asked me to help her in any such scheme, I should have refused." "I believe it. There is one thing," said Earle, "I have sworn to find her, and find her I will. Can you suggest to me any feasible or sensible plan of search?" Then he uttered a little cry of amaze, for Gregory Leslie was looking at him with a startled expression in his face. "Strange!" he said. "I have only just thought of it. You remember my picture of 'Innocence?'" "Yes," said Earle. "Well, there was a great deal of jealousy among my comrades over that face. They all wanted to know where I had found it, who was my model, where she lived. One wanted just such a face for his grand picture of Juliet, another thought it the very thing for his Marie Antoinette, in the zenith of her glory and beauty. Another declared that if he could but paint it as Cleopatra, his fortune would be made. Of course I would not, and did not dream for one moment of gratifying their curiosity. Perhaps the most curious among them was Ross Glynlyn. He prayed me to tell him, and was offended when I refused. Now I remember that a few days ago he called upon me in a state of great triumph; he had just returned from Italy. "'I have found your model,' he said. 'You need not have been so precise. I thought no good would come of such secrecy.' "'What model do you mean?' I asked. "'Your model of "Innocence." I have seen the very face you copied,' he replied. "'Indeed, where did you see it?'