_I am in sore trouble, and want your advice. Dolly has mysteriously
disappeared. One night, three weeks ago, she left the studio and went
home. After dressing she again went out, and since then nothing has
been seen or heard of her. I have searched everywhere, and made
strenuous efforts through the police and by advertisements to find some
trace of her, but all seems futile. She has disappeared completely.
Yet somehow I cannot think her silence is intentional, or that she has
run away with some male companion, for she was not addicted to
flirtation. You are one of her admirers, I know, so I want your advice
as to the best course to pursue. I'm at my wits' ends, old fellow.
Write and tell me what to do. I must find her; I shall never rest until
I ascertain definitely what has become of her_.
"Good heavens! What an extraordinary thing," ejaculated Trethowen, when
he had concluded reading.
"Dolly missing! She might be dead for aught we know; yet such a fate
cannot have befallen her. She cared for me a little, I know," he
soliloquised. "Perhaps she had hoped that I should ask her to become my
wife. Why," he gasped, as a thought suddenly occurred to him, "suppose
she has committed suicide because I did not reciprocate the love she
offered. Good God! if such were the case, I should never forgive
myself--never."
Pausing, he gazed blankly at the paper in his hand.
"Yet--yet, after all," he continued thoughtfully, "I love Valerie, and
shall marry no woman but her. There can be no reason why I should be
miserable or bother my head over the mystery."