'Pardon me, Colonel Gainsborough, that was precisely not my case. I did not know where to look. I have been here for days now, looking, till I was almost in despair; only I knew you must be somewhere, and I would not despair. I have looked for you in America and in England. I went down to Gainsborough Manor, to see if I could hear tidings of you there. Every time that I came home to Seaforth for a visit I took a week of my vacation and came here and hunted New York for you; always in vain.' 'The shortest way would have been to ask your father,' said the colonel, still drily. 'My father? I asked him, and he could tell me nothing. Why did you not leave us some clue by which to find you?' 'Clue?' said the colonel. 'What do you mean by clue? I have not hid myself.' 'But if your friends do not know where you are?' 'Your father could have told you.' 'He did not know your address, sir. I asked him for it repeatedly.' 'Why did he not give it to you?' said the colonel, throwing up his head like a war-horse. 'He said you had not given it to him.' 'That is true since we came to this place. I have had no intercourse with Mr. Dallas for a long time; not since we moved into our present quarters; and our address _here_ he does not know, I suppose. He ceased writing to me, and of course I ceased writing to him. From you we have never heard at all, since we came to New York.' 'But I wrote, sir,' said Pitt, in growing embarrassment and bewilderment. 'I wrote repeatedly.' 'What do you suppose became of your letters?' 'I cannot say. I wrote letter after letter, till, getting no answer, I was obliged to think it was in vain; and I too stopped writing.' 'Where did you direct your letters?' 'Not to your address here, which I did not know. I enclosed them to my father, supposing he did know it, and begged him to forward them.' 'I never got them,' said the colonel, with that same dry accentuation. It implied doubt of somebody; and could Pitt blame him? He kept a mortified silence for a few minutes. He felt terribly put in the wrong, and undeservedly; and--but he tried not to think. 'I am afraid to ask, what you thought of me, sir?' 'Well, I confess, I thought it was not just like the old William Dallas that I used to know; or rather, not like the _young_ William. I supposed you had grown old; and with age comes wisdom. That is the natural course of things.' 'You did me injustice, Colonel Gainsborough.' 'I am willing to think it. But it is somewhat difficult.' 'Take my word at least for this. I have never forgotten. I have never neglected. I sought for you as long as possible, and in every way that was possible, whenever I was in this country. I left off writing, but it was because writing seemed useless. I have come now in pursuance of my old promise; come on the mere chance of finding you; which, however, I was determined to do.' 'Your promise?'