For an instant he hesitated, for he was a man of refinement, and he hated the necessity of prying into the little secrets of his dear one. Then he agreed, and Miss Goodman took him from her own sitting-room to that tenanted by Winifred. Her presence seemed to linger in the air. His eyes traveled to the chair from which she rose with that glad crooning cry when he came to her so few hours earlier. On the table lay her tiny writing-case. In it, unopened, and hidden by the discouraging missive from the bookbinder's, rested the note from the dramatic agent, with the thrice-important clue of its plain statement: "I have made no appointment for you at any house near East Orange." But Miss Goodman had already thrown open the door which led to Winifred's bedroom. "You can see for yourself, sir," she said, "the room was not occupied last night. Nor that she could be in the house without me knowing it, poor thing. There are her clothes in the wardrobe, and the dressing-table is tidy. She's extraordinarily neat in her ways, is Miss Bartlett--quite different from the empty-headed creatures girls mostly are nowadays." Miss Goodman spoke bitterly. She was fifty, gray-haired, and a hopeless old maid. This point of view sours the appearance of saucy eighteen with the sun shining in its tresses. Carshaw swallowed something in his throat. The sanctity of this inner room of Winifred's overwhelmed him. He turned away hastily. "All right, Miss Goodman," he said; "we can learn nothing here. Let us go back to your apartment, and I'll tell you what I want you to do now." Passing the writing-desk again he looked more carefully at its contents. A small packet of bills caught his eye. There were the receipts for such simple articles as Winifred had bought with his money. Somehow, the mere act of examining such a list struck him with a sense of profanation. He could not do it. His eyes glazed. Hardly knowing what the words meant, he glanced through the typed document from the bookbinder. It was obviously a business letter. He committed no breach of the etiquette governing private correspondence by reading it. So great was his delicacy in this respect that he did not even lift the letter from the table, but noted the address and the curt phraseology. Here, then, was a little explanation. He would inquire at that place. "I want you to telegraph me each morning and evening," he said to the landlady. "Don't depend on the phone. If you have news, of course you will give it, but if nothing happens say that there is no news. Here is my address and a five-dollar bill for expenses. Did Miss Bartlett owe you anything?" "No, sir. She paid me yesterday when she gave me notice." "Ah! Kindly retain her rooms. I don't wish any other person to occupy them." "Do you think, sir, she will not come back to-day?" "I fear so. She is detained by force. She has been misled by some one. I am going now to find out who that some one else is."