Polly reached New York two days ago. I went up that night. She had gone out--alone. She did not return that night. I found this out when I went up yesterday morning and asked for her. She has not been there since she left. They know nothing about her. I have telegraphed Louisville. They have sent me no word. Come down at once. BEN. BEVERLEY SANDS TO BEN DOOLITTLE [Hurried letter by messenger] _July 10, 1912._ DEAR BEN: Is anything wrong about Polly? I met her on the street yesterday. She tried to pass without speaking. I called to her but she walked on. I called again and she turned, hesitatingly, then came back very slowly to meet me half-way. You know how composed her manner always is. But she could not control her emotion: she was deeply, visibly troubled. Strange as it may seem, while I thought of the mystery of her trouble, I could but notice a trifle, as at such moments one often does: she was beautifully dressed: a new charm, a youthful freshness, was all over her as for some impending ceremony. We have always thought of Polly as one of the women who are above dress. Such disregard was in a way a verification of her character, the adornment of her sincerity. Now she was beautifully dressed. "But what is the meaning of all this?" I asked, frankly mystified. Something in her manner checked the question, forced back my words. "You will hear," she said, with quivering lips. She looked me searchingly all over the face as for the sake of dear old times now ended. Then she turned off abruptly. I watched her in sheer amazement till she disappeared. I have been waiting to hear from you, but cannot wait any longer. What does it mean? Why don't you tell me? BEVERLEY. BEVERLEY SANDS TO BENJAMIN DOOLITTLE _July 11._ I have with incredible eyes this instant read this cutting from the morning paper: Miss Polly Boles married yesterday at the City Hall in Jersey City to Dr. Claude Mullen. She must have been on her way when I saw her. I have read the announcement without being able to believe it--with some kind of death in life at my heart. Oh, Ben, Ben, Ben! So betrayed! I am coming at once. BEVERLEY. DIARY OF BEVERLEY SANDS _July 18._ The ferns have had their ironic way with us and have wrought out their bitter comedy to its end. The little group of us who were the unsuspecting players are henceforth scattered, to come together in the human playhouse not again. The stage is empty, the curtain waits to descend, and I, who innocently brought the drama on, am left the solitary figure to speak the epilogue ere I, too, depart to go my separate road.