After breakfast he packed his trunk hurriedly and then, armed with the letter, sallied forth. Down King’s Street he went to the first corner; here a half-obliterated sign, nailed against the trunk of a giant oak, bore the legend “Mary Street;” he counted the houses and chose the third one. Emptiness was written all over its sleepy, red-brick front. Nevertheless he knocked, and waited. After many minutes the door was opened cautiously and an aged negress--he was certain it was Aunt Amanda--stuck her head through the narrow aperture. [Illustration] “Is Colonel Barrett at home?” asked Burton. “No, sah, he gone up No’th.” “Impossible!” exclaimed Burton, simulating intense surprise and dismay. “I have a letter of introduction to him. Can you tell me where he has gone?” “New Yo’k.” “And the address there?” [Illustration] “Can’ tell yo’ that, sah; reckon, though, jes’ ‘New Yo’k’ will fin’ him.” “But isn’t there anyone here in town that can give me his address?” “Don’ reckon so.” “But his mail, where does that go?” “Folkses at the pos’-office lookin’ arter that, sah.” “Oh! And is Miss Fletcher with him?” “Yessah.” “Thank you. I think I will leave my card. Will you kindly see that he gets it when he returns?” Burton tried the post-office without, however, much hope of success. And, as he had expected, the post-mistress, an elderly lady with an extremely suspicious expression about her thin lips, refused to divulge any information. [Illustration] “It’s a rule of the Department,” she explained severely. That evening Burton returned to New York without having obtained any more explicit directions than those given by Aunt Amanda. But he was not hopeless. Surely, he assured himself, it would not be difficult to discover the whereabouts of the Colonel and his niece so long as hotel registers were open to public inspection. But at the end of two days he had changed his mind. At the end of the third he gave up the search. New York had swallowed the Princess and the Ogre! Burton returned to his affairs, which had begun to suffer, and strove, for their good, to banish thoughts of Belle Harbour and the Enchanted Garden and Kitty of the Roses from his mind. But the task he had set himself was a difficult one; and just when it seemed that he was arriving at some degree of success, lo! a prankish Fate interposed. It was well into July. New York had been sweltering all day under hot, cloudless skies, and even the darkness brought no relief. To stay indoors was out of the question, and so Burton dragged himself from an already deserted club after a late dinner and hailed a hansom. [Illustration] “Drive around,” he directed,--“any old place so long as it’s cool.” [Illustration]