The second week in December Dorian went into action in search of Carlia
Duke. He acknowledged to himself that it was like searching for the
proverbial needle in the haystack, but inaction was no longer possible.
Carlia very likely had no large amount of money with her, so she would
have to seek employment. She could have hidden herself in the city, but
Dorian reasoned that she would be fearful of being found, so would have
gone to some nearby town; but which one, he had no way of knowing.
He visited a number of adjacent towns and made diligent enquiries at
hotels, stores, and some private houses. Nothing came of this first
week's search.
A number of mining towns could easily be reached by train from the city.
In these towns many people came and went without notice or comment.
Dorian spent nearly a week in one of them, but he found no clue. He went
to another. The girl would necessarily have to go to a hotel at first,
so the searcher examined a number of hotel registers. She had been gone
now about six months, so the search had to be in some books long since
discarded, much to the annoyance of the clerks.
Dorian left the second town for the third which was situated well up in
the mountains. The weather was cold, and the snow lay two feet deep over
the hills and valleys. He became disheartened at times, but always he
reasoned that he must try a little longer; and then one day in a hotel
register dated nearly five months back, he found this entry:
"Carlia Davis."
Dorian's heart gave a bound when he saw the name. Carlia was not a
common name, and the handwriting was familiar. But why Davis? He
examined the signature closely. The girl, unexperienced in the art of
subterfuge, had started to write her name, and had gotten to the D in
Duke, when the thought of disguise had come to her. Yes; there was an
unusual break between that first letter and the rest of the name. Carlia
had been here. He was on the right track, thank the Lord!
Dorian enquired of the hotel clerk if he remembered the lady. Did he
know anything about her? No; that was so long ago. His people came and
went. That was all. But Carlia had been here. That much was certain.
Here was at least a fixed point in the sea of nothingness from which he
could work. His wearied and confused mind could at least come back to
that name in the hotel register.
He began a systematic search of the town. First he visited the small
business section, but without results. Then he took up the residential
district, systematically, so that he would not miss any. One afternoon
he knocked on the door of what appeared to be one of the best
residences. After a short wait, the door was opened by a girl, highly
painted but lightly clad, who smiled at the handsome young fellow and
bade him come in. He stepped into the hall and was shown into what
seemed to be a parlor, though the parlors he had known had not smelled
so of stale tobacco smoke. He made his usual inquiry. No; no such girl
was here, she was sorry, but--the words which came from the carmine lips
of the girl so startled Dorian that he stood, hat in hand, staring at
her, and shocked beyond expression. He know, of course, that evil houses
existed especially in mining towns, inhabited by corrupt women, but this
was the first time he had ever been in such a place. When he realized
where he was, a real terror seized him, and with unceremonious haste he
got out and away, the girl's laughter of derision ringing in his ears.
Dorian was unnerved. He went back to his room, his thoughts in a whirl,
his apprehensions sinking to gloomy depths. What if Carlia should be in
such a place? A cold sweat of suffering broke over him before he could
drive away the thought. But at last he did get rid of it. His mind
cleared again, and he set out determined to continued the search.
However, he went no more into the houses by the invitation of inmates of
doubtful character, but made his inquiries at the open door.
Then it occurred to Dorian that Carlia, being a country bred girl
and accustomed to work about farm houses, might apply to some of the
adjacent farms down in the valley below the town for work. The whole
country lay under deep snow, but the roads were well broken. Dorian
walked out to a number of the farms and made enquiries. At the third
house he was met by a pleasant faced, elderly woman who listened
attentively to what he said, and then invited him in. When they were
both seated, she asked him his name. Dorian told her.
"And why are you interested in this girl?" she continued.
"Has she been here?" he asked eagerly.
"Never mind. You answer my question."
Dorian explained as much as he thought proper, but the woman still
appeared suspicious.
"Are you her brother?"
"No."
"Her young man?"
"Not exactly; only a dear friend."
"Well, you look all right, but looks are deceivin'." The woman tried to
be very severe with him, but somehow she did not succeed very well. She
looked quite motherly as she sat with her folded hands in her ample lap
and a shrewd look in her face. Dorian gained courage to say:
"I believe you know something about the girl I am seeking. Tell me."
"You haven't told me the name of the girl you are looking for."
"Her name is Carlia Duke."
"That isn't what she called herself."
"Oh, then you do know."
"This girl was Carlia Davis."
"Yes--is she here!"
"No."
"Do you know where she is?"
"No, I don't."
Dorian's hopes fell. "But tell me what you know about her--you know
something."
"It was the latter part of August when she came to us. She had walked
from town, an' she said she was wanting a place to work. As she was used
to farm life, she preferred to work at a country home, she said."
"Was she a dark-haired, rosy-cheeked girl?"
"Her hair was dark, but there was no roses in her cheeks. There might
have been once. I was glad to say yes to her for I needed help bad. Of
course, it was strange, this girl comin' from the city a' wanting to
work in the country. It's usually the other way."
"Yes; I suppose so."
"So I was a little suspicious."
"Of what?"
"That she hadn't come to work at all; though I'll say that she did her
best. I tried to prevent her, but she worked right up to the last."
"To the last? I don't understand?"
"Don't you know that she was to be sick? That she came here to be sick?"
"To be sick?" Dorian was genuinely at loss to understand.
"At first I called her a cheat, and threatened to send her away; but the
poor child pleaded so to stay that I hadn't the heart to turn her out.
She had no where to go, she was a long way from home, an' so I let her
stay, an' we did the best for her."
Dorian, in the simplicity of his mind, did not yet realize what the
woman was talking about. He let her continue.
"We had one of the best doctors in the city 'tend her, an' I did the
nursing myself which I consider was as good as any of the new-fangled
trained nurses can do; but the poor girl had been under a strain so long
that the baby died soon after it was born."
"The baby?" gasped Dorian.
"Yes," went on the woman, all unconsciously that the listener had not
fully understood. "Yes, it didn't live long, which, I suppose, in such
cases, is a blessing."
Dorian stared at the woman, then in a dazed way, he looked about the
plain farm-house furnishings, some details of which strangely impressed
him. The woman went on talking, which seemed easy for her, now she had
fairly started; but Dorian did not hear all she said. One big fact was
forcing itself into his brain, to the exclusion of all minor realities.
"She left a month ago," Dorian heard the woman say when again he was in
a condition to listen. "We did our best to get her to stay, for we had
become fond of her. Somehow, she got the notion that the scoundrel who
had betrayed her had found her hiding place, an' she was afraid. So she
left."
"Where did she go? Did she tell you?"
"No; she wouldn't say. The fact is, she didn't know herself. I'm sure
of that. She just seemed anxious to hide herself again. Poor girl." The
woman wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron.
Dorian arose, thanked her, and went out. He looked about the
snow-covered earth and the clouds which threatened storm. He walked on
up to the road back to the town. He was benumbed, but not with cold. He
went into his room, and, although it was mid-afternoon, he did not go
out any more that day. He sat supinely on his bed. He paced the floor.
He looked without seeing out of the window at the passing crowds. He
could not think at all clearly. His whole being was in an uproar of
confusion. The hours passed. Night came on with its blaze of lights in
the streets. What could he do now? What should he do now?
"Oh, God, help me," he prayed, "help me to order my thoughts, tell me
what to do."
If ever in his life Dorian had need of help from higher power, it was
now.