As I gazed down at this, two names seemed to stand out more vividly than all the rest. I closed my eyes and called before me the faces of two beautiful women. I had never seen either of them in the life--of one, I had only a photograph; of the other I had seen only a crude portrait in the parlour of the Kingdon cottage--but they had somehow assumed for me personalities distinct and vivid. Marcia Lawrence and Ruth Endicott--the tragedy of fate linked them together. Beautiful, young, accomplished, reared amid gentle surroundings, both had tasted the bitterness of life. From the very house whence Marcia Lawrence fled, Ruth Endicott had started on her hopeless search for health. The train slowed up for Jersey City, and in a moment was rolling under the great shed. Twenty minutes later, I opened our office door. Mr. Royce had gone out for lunch--which reminded me that I had missed mine again--but he came in almost immediately. "Well?" he cried, as he crossed the threshold, and came forward with expectant face. "You'd better wire Curtiss to come back," I said. "You've news for him?" I nodded. "I knew you'd have!" he said exultantly, and drew a pad of telegraph forms toward him and wrote a rapid message. "Curtiss is staying at a little place on Jamaica Bay. He was afraid to go any farther away, I suppose. He ought to be here in an hour," he added, and called a boy and gave him the message. Then he swung around to me again. "Now let's have the story," he prompted. "I know there's a story." "Yes," I said; "there's a story. I was just----" The door burst open with a crash, and in came Burr Curtiss himself. "I couldn't stay away any longer!" he cried. "I was eating my heart out. Have you any news?" "Sit down, Curtiss, and pull yourself together," interposed our junior, catching him by the arm. "This won't do. I just wired you to come on. You must have met the boy." "I believe I did knock over a youngster just outside the door." "Well, there's no damage done, I guess. Since you're here, Lester can go right ahead with the story." "But one thing first," interrupted our client. "Did you find out where she went, Mr. Lester?" "No," I answered. "But I have a message from her." "Thank God!" he murmured, and sank back in his chair. I guessed what his fear had been--that Marcia Lawrence was no longer among the living. Looking at him closely, I was shocked at the change a single day had wrought in him. His eyes were bloodshot from want of sleep, his face pale and drawn, his hair and beard unkempt. In a word, he had ceased to be the handsome, well-groomed man the world knew as Burr Curtiss. I related my doings briefly, including only the essential points. Then I placed the message in his hands. He read it, his face quivering. "But this tells us nothing," he said hoarsely, looking up at me with piteous eyes. "Except that she was in New York this morning--and wants to fight her battle out by herself." Curtiss was on his feet, his face livid.