"Brett. I found these upstairs in my room--_every letter I've written her_--even the first one from here before I left--returned unopened, marked 'unclaimed, address unknown,' together with a letter from Brett in explanation. I've just been talking with him on the 'phone, too." "So that's it--why he looked so at the station! What did he say? Why didn't he let you know before?" "He says it was a long time before the first letter came back. He knew we were away up in the mountains, and would be very likely started for home before he could reach us with it, anyway. And there wouldn't be a thing we could do--up there, except to come home; and we'd already be doing that, anyway. And this would only worry us, and trouble us, and make our return trip a horror--without helping a bit." "Quite right. Brett is always right," nodded John Denby. "Then, of course, came the delay, your sickness, and all. Of course he wouldn't let us know then--when we _couldn't_ come. By that time other letters I had written on the way out began to come back from Wenton. (I always used my own envelopes with the Dalton address in the corner, so of course they all showed up here in time.) When the second and third came he knew it wasn't a mistake. He'd been hoping the first one was, somehow, he said." "Yes, yes, I see. And of course it might have been. But what did he do? Didn't he do--anything?" "Yes. First, he said, he kept his own counsel--here in town. He knew we'd want to avoid all gossip and publicity." "Of course!" "He put the thing into the hands of a private detective whom he could trust; and he went himself to Wenton--for a vacation, apparently." "Good old Brett! Wise, as usual. What did he find?" "Nothing--except that she was not there, and hadn't been there since she left some years ago, soon after her mother's death. He says he's positive of that. So he had to come back no wiser than he went." "But--the detective." "Very little there. Still, there was something. He traced her to Boston." "_Boston!_" "Yes." "What friends has she in Boston?" "None, so far as I know. I never heard her mention knowing a soul there. Still, I believe she had a--a position there with some one, before she went to Aunt Eunice; but I don't know who it was." "There's Gleason--she knows him." Burke gave his father a glance from scornful eyes. "My best friend! She'd be apt to go to him, wouldn't she, if she were running away from me? Besides, we've had three or four letters from him since we've been gone. Don't you suppose he'd tell us of it, if she'd gone to him?" "Yes, yes, of course," frowned John Denby, biting his lips. "It's only that I was trying to get hold of some one--or something. Think of it--that child alone in Boston, and--no friends! Of course she had money--that is, I suppose she cashed it--that check?" John Denby turned with a start.