Other friends the girl had in plenty, but to Tristrem they were little more than shadows. There seemed to be no one to whom he could turn. Indeed he was sorely perplexed. Since the hour in which he learned that his father and Viola's were not the same he had been possessed of but one thought--to see her and kneel at her feet; and in the haste he had not shown the slightest forethought--he had been too feverishly energetic to so much as wait till he got her address; and now in the helter-skelter he had run into a _cul-de-sac_ where he could absolutely do nothing except sit and bite his thumb. The enforced inactivity was torturesome as suspense. In his restlessness he determined to retrace his steps; he would return to New York, he told himself, learn of her whereabouts, and start afresh. Already he began to calculate the number of days which that course of action would necessitate, and then suddenly, as he saw himself once more on Fifth Avenue, he bethought him of Alphabet Jones. What man was there that commanded larger sources of social information than he? He would cable to him at once, and on the morrow he would have the address. The morrow dawned, and succeeding morrows--a week went by, and still no word from Jones. A second week passed, and when a third was drawing to a close and Tristrem, outwearied and enervated, had secured a berth on a returning steamer, at last the answer came--an answer in four words--"_Brown Shipley, Founders' Court_." That was all, but to Tristrem, in his over-wrought condition, they were as barbs of flame. "My own bankers!" he cried; "oh, thrice triple fool! why did I not think of them before?" He was so annoyed at his stupidity that on his way to the city his irritation counterbalanced the satisfaction which the message brought. "Three whole weeks have I waited," he kept telling himself--"three whole weeks! H'm! Jones might better have written. No, I might better have shown some common-sense. Three whole weeks!" He was out of the cab before it had fairly stopped, and breathless when he reached the desk of the clerk whose duty it was to receive and forward the letters of those who banked with the house. "I want Mrs. Raritan's address," he said--"Mrs. R. F. Raritan, please." The clerk fumbled a moment over some papers. "Care of Munroe, Rue Scribe," he answered. "Thank God!" Tristrem exclaimed; "and thank you. Send my letters there also."