That night at seven o’clock Patricia called Gary’s apartment. Her mood was such, when she dialed the number, that a repair man had to come the next day and replace a broken spring in the instrument. She held the receiver to her ear a full five minutes and listened to the steady drone of the bell calling Gary. Had Gary been there to answer, he would have had a broken engagement within five minutes to hold him awake nights. After awhile little Pat Connolly wiped the tears of rage from her eyes and called the landlady of Gary’s apartment. The landlady assured her that Mr. Marshall hadn’t been near the place for two weeks. At least, she had not seen him. He might have come in late and gone out early--a good many of her tenants did--and in that case she wouldn’t be so apt to see him. But she hadn’t noticed him around last Sunday, and most generally she did see him Sundays because he slept late and if she didn’t see him she was pretty sure to hear his voice in the hall speaking to some one. She could always tell Mr. Marshall’s voice as far as she could hear it, it was so pleasant---- “Oh, my good heavens!” gritted Patricia and followed the example of the snippy office girl at Cohen’s. She hung up while the landlady was still talking. Which was not polite of Patricia, but excusable. Well, perhaps Gary was out on location. But that seemed strange, because even after quarrels Gary had never failed to call Patricia up and let her know that he was leaving town. After quarrels his voice would be very cool and dignified, it is true; but nevertheless he had never before failed to let her know that he was leaving town. Patricia spent another week in mentally reviewing that last evening with Gary and in justifying herself for everything she had said to him. Gary really did need to be told the plain truth, and she had told him. If he wanted to go away and nurse his injured vanity and sulk, that merely proved how much he had needed the plain truth told him. She waited until Friday morning. On Friday, because she had not heard from Gary, and because she had lain awake Thursday night telling herself that she was thankful she had found him out in time, and that it didn’t make a particle of difference to her whether she ever heard from him or not, Patricia manufactured an errand down town for her employers. Because she was a conscientious young woman she attended to the manufactured errand first. Immediately thereafter she marched into the branch office of the _Examiner_. In years Patricia’s chin had never looked so square. She was not in the habit of wetting her pencil, but now she stood at the ad counter, licked an indelible pencil defiantly, and wrote this, so emphatically that the pad was marked with the imprint of the letters seven pages deep: WANTED: Man to take charge of small cattle ranch in Nevada. Open range, living springs, imp. Completely furnished on shares. Phone 11270 Sun.