Francis Murray, too, remained in Boston until the next morning. At breakfast he showed a very pale and anxious face to all. “I am very much troubled,” he said frankly. “Lawyer Gardner, I learn, has shut up his house and gone to Europe, so if Italy went to him she was disappointed. I have been the round of the hotels, but she is not at any of them, and I feel very uneasy over her fate.” “You should not worry, for the girl is quite capable of taking care of herself. Remember, she came here alone from Europe,” said his mother, in a tone of slight impatience. She felt sure herself that all was well with the wilful girl. “You do not suppose that she can have--committed suicide?” queried tender-hearted Alexie anxiously. “Certainly not!” he answered almost sharply, but his face grew paler still, and he wished to himself that Alexie had not put such an uncanny thought into words. Alys had drawn the morning’s paper from her host’s plate, and was scanning it eagerly. She looked up, and said, with a malicious smile: “Here is a young girl found wandering the streets of Boston in her night-dress at midnight. Perhaps that is your protegée, Mr. Murray.” “Read it aloud, Alys!” cried her sister eagerly. Alys smoothed out the paper with deliberate white fingers while they waited impatiently, then she said: “I don’t like to read aloud, and this is such a long paragraph, so I’ll tell it in my own words. A beautiful young girl was found last night by a policeman walking along the street, clad only in a thin, white night-dress. She seemed to be in a somnambulistic sleep, and was frightened nearly to death when the policeman woke her. She would not or could not tell anything about herself, so they carried her to a police-station, and placed her in the matron’s care.” No one was usually more calm and courteous than Francis Murray. But at this thrilling moment excitement overcame him. He took the newspaper hastily from Miss Audenreid’s hands, exclaiming hoarsely: “Permit me!” What he read there decided him. He rose hastily without finishing his breakfast. “I will go and see this girl,” he said, and his mother cried out impatiently: “Do finish your coffee, Francis, before you start on such a wild-goose chase, for I am sure the girl cannot be Italy Vale.” He did not tell her what good grounds he had for supposing that the mysterious somnambulist was Italy. He only answered: “Something tells me I had better go! Mother, I should like you to send your maid along with me, with some clothing for Miss Vale to wear home.” “Certainly,” she answered, but her heart was at war with her promise. The eager interest he betrayed in Italy Vale troubled her mind.