Walsh stroked his bald pate with his hand, and drew deeply upon his cigar. Wingfield was pondering Walsh’s words carefully, fully appreciating the flattery of the old fellow’s unwonted loquacity. “How are we going to find her?” “We are not going to find her. Wayne’s a lucky devil--such fellows are usually lucky--and his future must take care of itself.” “So our prince must marry a pauper, the girl behind the glove counter, the angel whose nimble digits gambol merrily upon the typewriter, the low-voiced houri who trifles with the world’s good nature in the telephone exchange? Wayne is fastidious. How are you going to arrange the time and the place and the loved one altogether?” demanded Wingfield. “I’m not a fool, Mr. Wingfield; I’m not going to arrange it at all! I’d look pretty in the matchmaking business,” concluded Walsh grimly. “No; I guess not,” smiled Wingfield; but he was startled by Walsh’s next statement, delivered quietly and with his cigar in his mouth. “I could hardly qualify as an expert on marriage, having failed at it myself.” Walsh’s tone forbade inquiry. He had opened a door into some dark chamber of his past, then closed it tight and shot the bolt back into place. He rose, clumsily and lumberingly, and dropped his cigar into an ash tray. The long, blank surface of his bald head wrinkled as his brows lifted, and his eyes widened as though fixed on a horizon against which he had glimpsed the familiar outlines of some wave-washed and hopeless argosy. By a common impulse the men clasped hands silently. “An election bet or what?” cried Mrs. Blair in the doorway. “With all the trouble there is about getting men, I should like to know what you two mean by hobnobbing here by yourselves. I shall punish you for this, Mr. Walsh, by making you take me in to supper.” The guests were being served in the dining room and in the hall and conservatory adjoining. Mrs. Blair convoyed Walsh to a corner where Mrs. Craighill was seated at a table with the solidest bank president of the Greater City. This person was, however, slightly deaf, and as Mrs. Blair rose frequently, in her office of hostess, to assure herself of the comfort of the others who were straying in for supper, Walsh found opportunity for speech with Mrs. Craighill, whom he had observed only passingly in the drawing room. “This is the most hospitable place! Everyone is so very kind,” murmured Mrs. Craighill. “I suppose so,” replied Walsh, his glance falling upon Roger Craighill, who was relating an anecdote to a circle of wrapt listeners near by. The financier was intent upon his salad, and Mrs. Craighill gave her whole attention to Walsh. “Colonel Craighill has told me a great deal about you, Mr. Walsh. Let me see what it was that he said--you know how splendidly he puts everything--he said, ‘Mr. Walsh is a born trustee; you can trust him with anything.’” “Those are strong words,” said Walsh, meeting her gaze quietly.