"Yes, Mr. Byrd," responded Varesi, his lustrous Italian eyes flashing sympathy. He thought, no doubt, from what he must have overheard, that some rascal had run off with my younger sister—a killing matter, very possibly, to a properly constituted male. Had he known the truth, his Latin mind would have been shocked at my seeming Anglo-Saxon composure. Out of doors I heaved a deep sigh and boarded a north-bound elevated train for the eighties, where Dibdin has his lodgings, near the Museum of Natural History. I found Dibdin not at his lodging but at the Museum, directing the rearrangement of the Polynesian section in the light of his additions to it. He turned one intense glance upon me without speaking, hurriedly gave some directions to the men at work, and led me to an alcove where there was a bench. "Now, let’s hear—" he said. "What’s he been doing?" He concluded at once that Pendleton was at the bottom of whatever wild appearance I must have presented. Briefly, but without omitting any essential detail, I gave him an account of all that had happened the previous evening, including Griselda’s announcement of the morning. "And you think he enticed her to go off with him?" he demanded. "Well—what do you think?" I queried. "I think no," said Dibdin. "What does Griselda say?" "She says Alicia hated him." "Then take her word for it!" snapped Dibdin. "But why the devil didn’t you call me last night from the Manhattan?" he turned upon me angrily. "Why didn’t I?" I murmured. "Maybe it’s because you’ve done enough—maybe it’s because there are some things a man wants to do without assistance." Dibdin glanced at me sharply and gave a low whistle. "Oh, that’s it—" he muttered—"I see," and he looked away. I am certain that at that moment Dibdin read my secret. For his expression swiftly changed. He grew suddenly warm and friendly, more than his usual self. "A fine job you did there, Randolph," he cried, clapping my shoulder; "an excellent piece of work. I certainly admire your technique. As for Alicia—she didn’t go with him—of that I feel sure!" I could have groveled before him in gratitude for those words. "But where do you suppose she is?" I could not help eagerly asking. There was a gleam of amusement mingled with the sympathy in his eyes. "Not very far, I imagine. We’ll find her. Have no fear. Young girls are funny things. The instinct of sacrifice and the instinct of independence are always struggling in a woman like the twins in Rebekah’s womb. When they’re young it hits them very hard. Some notion like that must have swamped Alicia—sacrifice—earn her own living—ceasing to be a source of trouble—who knows? They don’t think when they’re young—or even when they’re old. They feel. We’ll find her—but we’ve got to think. Pull yourself together, old man." "How," I asked in stupefaction, "do you come to know all that about women?" And my heart felt perceptibly lightened at his words.