One by one each separate member of the little circle announced an utter lack of information with regard to the lost portfolio, save Mary Gilchrist, who had gone on with her reading after Bettina and her mother’s entrance into the living-room. “Mary, I wonder if by any chance you noticed the manuscript of the poems in Mrs. Graham’s room when I asked you to find a magazine for me this morning?” Mrs. Burton inquired. Mary Gilchrist glanced up from the pages of her book, flushing slightly. “No, I don’t recall seeing the manuscript, but really I cannot appreciate why Mrs. Graham should be so concerned. I have an idea the poems were of no value; probably some one thought they were waste paper and they were thrown into the fire.” “But, Gill, I don’t believe you understand the situation,” Bettina Graham remonstrated. “Whether or not the poems were of value they must represent years of work and thought to Mr. Drain. I have no doubt they mean more to him than we can well imagine. Besides, the poems were entrusted to mother’s keeping and it would be simply too dreadful if they could not be found!” Shrugging her shoulders slightly, Mary Gilchrist resumed her reading, while Mrs. Graham sat down beside the Camp Fire guardian. “Don’t trouble, Betty dear, I am distressed that you have been uneasy, but let’s have tea and then begin a more thorough search of the entire house. The manuscript of course is only tucked away somewhere out of sight and will soon be found. Poor young poet, nothing so tragic could have happened as that his verse should be lost!” “You don’t suppose, Polly, that by any unlucky chance, if the portfolio is not discovered the boy has no copies of his verses? I scarcely dare face him unless the original manuscript which he gave to me this morning with such pride and pleasure, is restored. I cannot even face the idea that the effort of the boy’s lifetime may be destroyed.” “Nonsense, mother, drink your tea and afterwards we will return to the search! Nothing else has disappeared save the manuscript, which would scarcely attract an ordinary thief.” “Perhaps the poet himself returned mysteriously and bore off his own handiwork, unable to be so long without it,” Mary Gilchrist suggested. No one made a reply. CHAPTER VI “A Man for a’ That.” Several days later Mary Gilchrist was again in the living-room in the early afternoon, but on this occasion she was alone. At the piano in the corner of the room she was practising a number of new Camp Fire songs. During their shut-in winter in the mountains, music promised to be one of the principal relaxations, and, although not so good a pianist as Bettina Graham, Gill felt it her duty to regain a little of her lost skill, due to the failure to work at her music during the years spent abroad.