“Very few people are so happily endowed according to your standard.” The elevator came down, with a little jar, to the basement floor, and Roma led her small friend out into the hall and through to the restaurant. “We are not mad with each other, are we?” inquired Owlet as they seated themselves at one of the remote corner tables. “Why, certainly not! We are the best of friends always.” “I’m glad of that, because I only told the truth, and it was for your good, too; because I do love you, really.” The breakfast bill of fare laid before them by the obsequious waiter arrested attention and stopped the conversation; and after the meal was served Owlet was too much engaged with her milk, bread and eggs to favor Roma with any more “wisdom in solid chunks.” When they returned to the parlor upstairs they found Mr. Merritt there, waiting for Roma. “Any news of Will Harcourt?” she inquired as she shook hands with him. “None whatever. We must do now what we should have done in the beginning—advertise for him,” replied the lawyer. “You mean in the personal columns of the daily papers and by initials and guarded hints?” “No. I mean by a straightforward advertisement in the advertising columns for information respecting the whereabouts of William Everard Harcourt, late of Lone Lodge, West Virginia, who left his home on the Isle of Storms, coast of Maryland, on the fifteenth of last November, and has not been heard from since, and offering a large reward for intelligence that shall lead to the discovery of his fate.” “That will be making his mysterious disappearance very public.” “Yes; but it is absolutely the only hope left of finding him.” “But if this advertisement should come to the knowledge of his poor mother?” “My dear lady, Dorothy Harcourt, by all accounts, is not in a mental condition to appreciate it. She thinks her son is at his college. She has forgotten all recent events—that is, if we may credit the report of Miss Wynthrop.” “Yes, I know. Well, since it is so absolutely necessary you may insert the advertisement in all the papers.” “Now, my dear child, there is another matter on which I wish to speak to you. You, who were a very queen of society, why do you seclude yourself from the world here in the midst of Washington City in the height of the fashionable season? Why do you not send your cards to your friends who are present here, and would be so glad to invite you to their parties.” “Oh, Mr. Merritt, how can I, under present circumstances? I have no wish to go out. Although I have done no wrong, I feel as if I were a social pariah.” “That is morbid—very morbid! The story of your wrongs is not known at all beyond the precincts of the judicial chambers; and even if it were known, it would only invest you with a deeper interest, that would hold much admiration and no censure whatever.” “I could not tolerate such a personal interest, Mr. Merritt,” replied Roma.