Cornelia turned back to look into the room again and make sure he was not there, and she saw Carey’s new panama hat hanging on the hook back by the staircase where he had put it when he came in from afternoon service. She drew a breath of relief, and called, in a lull of the music, “Louie, where is Carey?” The little girl turned and looked wonderingly at her sister’s anxious face. “Why, he was here just a minute ago, Nellie; what’s the matter? I think he went out the front door.” He was gone! Cornelia knew it, and her heart sank with a horrible sickening thud. She went back to the door, and looked down the street and then up the hill, where the car was a mere black speck in the distance. Her heart was beating so that it seemed the children must hear it. She tried to think, but all that came was a wild jumble of ideas. The meeting that night! Carey had a short solo in the anthem! Suppose he shouldn’t get back! What should she say to Grace? How could his absence possibly be explained? He couldn’t—he _wouldn’t_ do a thing like that, would he? He had gone without his hat; perhaps he expected to return immediately. She was foolish to get so frightened. Carey had been doing so wonderfully all day. He certainly had sense enough not to make a fool of himself now. But her heart would not be quieted, and she trembled in every fibre. She hurried down the steps and to the sidewalk looking up the hill where the car had just disappeared, and her hand pressed against her heart to steady its fluttering. She did not see Maxwell’s car drive up until it stopped; and, when she looked at him, a new fear seized her. Maxwell must not know that she was afraid about that girl. He had gone to a lot of trouble for Carey, and he would not like it. It might lose Carey the position. She tried to command a smile, but the white face she turned toward him belied it. “Is anything the matter?” he asked, stopping his car and jumping out beside her. Then he stooped, and picked up something from the pavement at her feet. “Is this yours? Did you drop it?” She looked down, took the bit of paper, and her face grew whiter still as she caught the words, “Dear Carey.” It must be the note the boy had brought, and suddenly she knew who that boy had been. It was Clytie Dodd’s brother! CHAPTER XXVII For a second everything swam before her eyes, and it seemed as though she could not stand up. Maxwell put out his hand in alarm to steady her. “Hadn’t you better go into the house?” he asked anxiously. “You look ill. Do you feel faint?” “Oh, I’m all right,” she said almost impatiently. “I’m just worried. Maybe there isn’t anything the matter, but—it looks very—queer. This must be the note the boy brought.” She began to read the note, which was written in a clear feminine hand on fine note paper: “DEAR CAREY, I came out here to see a Sunday-school scholar who is sick, and I am in great trouble. Come to me quick! I’m out at Lamb’s Tavern. “GRACE.”