"But Ninitta is gone!" exclaimed the sculptor, suddenly recalled to present difficulties. "I have not been able to find her since the day she did this." "Gone!" echoed Helen in dismay; "and you cannot find her?" Herman related in detail the steps he had taken to trace Ninitta, all of which had thus far proved unavailing. He had endeavored to avoid publicity, but he already began to fear that it would be necessary to call detectives to his aid. "Not yet," Helen said. "Let me try first. Have you seen Mr. Fenton?" "No; why? I have been very cautious. I have told nobody but Fred Rangely." Helen reflected a moment. Her woman's instinct told her that it was not likely Ninitta would put any great distance between herself and the sculptor. The model could have but few acquaintances in the city, and as she would need support it seemed probable she might try posing for some of the artists. As this thought crossed her mind, Helen remembered that Ninitta had promised to pose for Fenton when no longer wanted for the has-relief. It was therefore possible that Fenton might know something of the whereabouts of the missing girl; and in any case Helen had been so used to consulting the artist in any perplexity, that it was but natural for her thoughts to turn to him now. "Let me try," she repeated. "It will be less likely to excite talk if I look for her; she was my model. Trust the search to me for a day or two." He was only too glad to do so; glad to be released from the burden of anxiety, as by virtue of some subtle faith in Mrs. Greyson he was; glad of any thing in which he might obey her; glad above all of any bond of common interest which might draw them nearer to each other, even if it were search for the woman who stood between them. On her way homeward Helen went into Studio Building, but before she had climbed half way to Fenton's room, she encountered Dr. Ashton. "It is of no use," was his greeting. "He isn't in. His wife has probably taken him to church." "He was at church this morning," Helen answered, putting her hand into the one Dr. Ashton extended. "I saw him." "Did you go to church? What a lark." "It was rather a lark," she assented; "only I got wretchedly blue before the service was done." "What church was it? Mrs. Fenton looks as if she'd poise dizzily on high church altitudes like the angel on St. Angelo." "So she does; she goes to the Nativity." "How did Arthur look?" "Amused at first; then bored; then cross; and finally, when the sermon was well under way, indignant." "And his wife?" "His wife, Will," Helen said with a sudden enthusiasm, "looked like a saint. She really believes all these fables. I wish I did." "It will be some fun to watch Arthur's conversion and backsliding," Dr. Ashton observed, "if he really gets far enough along to be able to backslide. Where are you going?" "To see Arthur. I have an errand." "Do you object to my walking with you?" he asked with a deference rare enough to attract her notice.