Queer things happen in life. Just beyond Buffalo that night, the train newsboy came through, crying the evening dailies. The papers were black with headlines. The big munitions plant at Russellville, New Jersey, engaged in making shells for the British government, had blown up that afternoon, killing hundreds, destroying the town. The conflagration was still burning, with shells exploding in the vitals of the flames like a small battle transferred to this side the Atlantic. Nathan read the account of the disaster like a hundred million others that evening, thinking “Such is war!” He found my wire when he reached The Morrison in Chicago. I thought he should know; the gypsy trail of the world spread before him now with many mystic and perhaps romantic twists and turns yet to be negotiated. I worded my telegram thus: MILDRED RICHARDS IN LIST RUSSELLVILLE DEAD IS MILLY FOLKS JUST RECEIVED WORD PLUMB HAD TAKEN JOB SHIPYARDS near-by IS UNHURT NO TRACE MILLY FOUND BEST WISHES PLEASANT TRIP MOTHER WIFE AND SELF WILLIAM. III It was a week before Nathan located Bernice. Not because he did not know her address; he had procured it from Elinore Carver who had married a local furniture man and with whom Bernie had kept up an intermittent correspondence since leaving Paris. It was because Milly’s passing affected him grievously. Somehow it was difficult to shake off the presentiment that in ordering her from the house that Sunday night, he had unwittingly sent her to her death. Certainly she would not have left with Plumb so soon and gone to work in the munitions plant. I think he went to Bernie’s apartment on the North Shore, seeking some poor solace in a woman’s company. Anyhow, thinking to surprise her and never dreaming she would not be glad to see him, he dressed in dinner clothes one Wednesday evening and set out for the address Elinore had supplied. The place where Bernice now resided was an exclusive apartment, with an onyx marble entrance and a negro ‘phone attendant to announce callers to rooms above. “Yo’ is one of de guests, ah s’pose,” commented the African, and then, before the puzzled Vermonter could respond, “De guests is to go up wifout bein’ announced. Flo’ Three, ’partment Three-Fifty-Fo’.” Nathan went up in the automatic lift. A Japanese boy answered his ring and immediately the door was opened, from regions behind came jazzy music. “May I see Mrs. DuMont?” asked my friend. The Oriental grinned and held wide the door. “You please to give me your name,” suggested the Jap. “I tell her to come out to see you.” “What’s going on—a party?” But the Oriental only grinned the more and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, tell her a man from her old home town is here and would like a few moments with her. Forge! Nathan Forge!” And in a few moments Bernie came.