When she realized this Mrs. Fowler was terribly upset. Sylvia’s room was in confusion, the bureau drawers pulled out, the closet doors open. Anne not being there, Harper, who was scared at Mrs. Fowler’s excitement, called Nora Magee, the chambermaid. She was a smart girl and saw pretty quickly that Sylvia had evidently left. The toilet things were gone from the dresser; the jewelry case was open and empty, only for a few old pieces of no great value. It was part of Nora’s job to do up the room and she knew where Sylvia’s Hudson seal coat hung in one of the closets. A glance showed her that was gone, also a gold-fitted bag that the Doctor had given his stepdaughter on her birthday. All the servants knew of the quarreling and its cause and while Mrs. Fowler was moaning and hunting about helplessly, Nora went to the desk and opened it. There, lying careless as if it had been thrown in in a hurry, was Jack Reddy’s letter. She gave a glance at it and handed it to Mrs. Fowler. With the letter in her hand Mrs. Fowler ran downstairs and telephoned to the Doctor. The poor lady was in a terrible way and when Anne got back she had to sit with her, trying to quiet her till the Doctor came back. That wasn’t till nearly two in the morning, when he reached home, dead beat, saying he’d come round the turnpike from the Riven Rock Road and seen no sign of either Sylvia or Jack Reddy. No one at Mapleshade saw Sylvia leave the house, no one in Longwood saw her pass through the village, yet, two and a half hours from the time she had made the date with Mr. Reddy, she was seen again, over a hundred miles from her home, in the last place anyone would have expected to find her. Way up on the turnpike, two miles from Cresset’s Crossing, there’s a sort of roadhouse where the farm hands spend their evenings and automobilists stop for drinks and gasoline. It’s got a shady reputation, being frequented by a rough class of people and once there was a dago—a laborer on Cresset’s Farm—killed there in a drunken row. It’s called the Wayside Arbor, which doesn’t fit, sounding innocent and rural, though in the back there is a trellis with grapes growing over it and tables set out under it in warm weather. At this season it’s a dreary looking spot, an old frame cottage a few yards back from the road, with a broken-down piazza and a door painted green leading into the bar. Along the top of the piazza goes the sign "Wayside Arbor," with advertisements for some kind of beer at each end of it, and in the window there’s more advertisements for whisky and crackers and soft drinks. Nailed to one of the piazza posts is a public telephone sign standing out very prominent.