From time to time Silvette had stopped at any convenient place to telephone Edgerton, calling him up at his various points of possible contact. She had telegraphed him the morning that they left Adriutha, which was the day before, but, as time passed, it became evident that he had not yet received the telegram. Some days ago he had gone to Pittsburg at Mr. Dineen’s suggestion. On his way back he was to stop at Philadelphia and Jersey City. Rivett said at luncheon that he’d probably return to his rooms before dining, and find their telegram in time to join them at the Plaza for dinner. But he didn’t come, nor did any word arrive from him; and Silvette and Jack went off to the New Theater to see "The Thunderbolt" matchlessly staged and acted in a matchless theater; and Rivett offered to take Diana anywhere. But the girl was sick at heart under her smiling, feverish gayety, and the brilliant darkness of the streets seemed to mock her as she looked out into them. Also, there was a chance that Edgerton might arrive late and telephone to somebody—perhaps even to her. It was merely a chance, but her chances were few these days, and she durst not pass one by, no matter how unlikely it looked. So she thanked Mr. Rivett, and preferred her room in the pretty suite to which he had invited Silvette and herself; and there she sat in her silken dinner gown, sunk into the velvety depths of a chair, watching the city lights from the window, waiting, listening—always listening with a hope that died and lived with her unquiet breathing; fading, flowering, waxing, waning, dead and alive between two heartbeats—the hope forever new—the only living thing which cannot die while the sad world endures. Below her, far below, the lights of motors ran swiftly like passing meteors; the lights of carriages and hansoms streamed to and fro, yellower and slower; the lighted windows of street cars glided across her line of vision in endless, level repetition. To the west the gemmed façade of the New Theater sparkled above the trees; northward the lighted streets spread away like linked jewels under the winter stars. Into the high silence where she lay and looked out into the night, only a faint rumor of the city mounted from below; a tongue of flame rustled on the hearth; the clock ticked. Suddenly, silence was shattered in her ears; she sprang to her feet, one hand against her heart, her stunned senses deafened by the clamor of the telephone. The next instant she was at the receiver—the receiver pressed convulsively to her ear. "Yes," she said faintly. * * * * * * "Yes; this is Miss Tennant." * * * * * * "Yes—Diana Tennant. Who is it?" * * * * * * "Yes; I will hold the wire." She rested against the shelf, relaxing from the tension; then, rigid, electrified: "Yes! Is that you, Jim?" "Of course!" he replied. "Are you at the Plaza?"