Now, as it turned out, his chief surprise was that she should wait so long to make him speak them. All through the dinner she had swept him along on a rapid current of talk which showed no tendency to linger or turn back upon the past. At first he ascribed her reserve to a sense of delicacy with which he reproached himself for not having previously credited her; then he saw that she had been carried so far beyond the point at which they had last faced each other, that it was by the merest hazard of associated ideas that she was now finally borne back to it. For it appeared that the very next evening, at Mrs. Beecher Bain’s, a Hindu Mahatma was to lecture to the Uplift Club on the Limits of the Subliminal; and it was owing to no less a person than Howland Wade that this exceptional privilege had been obtained. “Of course Howland’s known all over the world as the interpreter of Pellerinism, and the Aga Gautch, who had absolutely declined to speak anywhere in public, wrote to Isabella that he could not refuse anything that Mr. Wade asked. Did you know that Howland’s lecture, ‘What Pellerinism Means,’ has been translated into twenty-two languages, and gone into a fifth edition in Icelandic? Why, that reminds me,” Miss Fosdick broke off--“I’ve never heard what became of your queer friend--what was his name?--whom you and Bob Wade accused me of spiriting away after that very lecture. And I’ve never seen _you_ since you rushed into the house the next morning, and dragged me out of bed to know what I’d done with him!” With a sharp effort Bernald gathered himself together to have it out. “Well, what _did_ you do with him?” he retorted. She laughed her appreciation of his humour. “Just what I told you, of course. I said good-bye to him on Isabella’s door-step.” Bernald looked at her. “It’s really true, then, that he didn’t go home with you?” She bantered back: “Have you suspected me, all this time, of hiding his remains in the cellar?” And with a droop of her fine lids she added: “I wish he _had_ come home with me, for he was rather interesting, and there were things I think I could have explained to him.” Bernald helped himself to a nectarine, and Miss Fosdick continued on a note of amused curiosity: “So you’ve really never had any news of him since that night?” “No--I’ve never had any news of him.” “Not the least little message?” “Not the least little message.” “Or a rumour or report of any kind?” “Or a rumour or report of any kind.” Miss Fosdick’s interest seemed to be revived by the strangeness of the case. “It’s rather creepy, isn’t it? What _could_ have happened? You don’t suppose he could have been waylaid and murdered?” she asked with brightening eyes. Bernald shook his head serenely. “No. I’m sure he’s safe--quite safe.” “But if you’re sure, you must know something.” “No. I know nothing,” he repeated. She scanned him incredulously. “But what’s your theory--for you must have a theory? What in the world can have become of him?”