Several days passed.  After waiting in vain for him to call at the governor’s mansion, Betty Dalrymple drove herself to the hotel; here she learned that he had gone without leaving an address; a message from Sir Charles for Mr. Heatherbloom, formally offering to put the latter up at government house, had not been delivered.  Mr. Heatherbloom had failed to call for his mail.

“Really, my dear, such solicitude!” murmured the governor’s wife, when Miss Dalrymple came out of the hotel.  “An ordinary secret-service man, too.”

“Oh, no; not an ordinary one,” said the girl a little confusedly.  She had not taken the liberty of speaking of Mr. Heatherbloom’s private affairs to her august hosts.  His true name, or his story, were his to reveal when or where he saw fit.  In taking her into his confidence he had sealed her lips until such time as she had his permission to speak.

“Well, don’t worry about the man,” observed the elder lady rather loftily.  “There has been a big reward offered, of course, and he’ll appear in due time to claim it.”

“He’ll not,” began Betty Dalrymple indignantly, and stopped.

She had been obliged to explain in some way Mr. Heatherbloom’s presence, and the subterfuge he had himself employed toward her on the Nevski had been the only one that occurred to her.  A brave secret-service officer who had aided her—­that’s what Mr. Heatherbloom was to the governor and his better half.  Hence the distinct formality of Sir Charles’ note to Mr. Heatherbloom, indited at Miss Dalrymple’s special request and somewhat against the good baronet’s own secret judgment.  A police agent may be valiant as a lion, but he is not a gentleman.

Something of this axiomatic truth the excellent hosts strove to instill by means, more or less subtle, in the mind of their young guest; but she clung with odd tenacity to her own ingenuous point of view.  Whereupon Sir Charles figuratively shrugged.  Reprehensible democracy of the new world!  She, with the perversity of American womankind, actually spoke of, and, no doubt, desired to treat the fellow as an equal.

She found him one morning, a day or two later.  She came down to the wharf, alone, and on foot.  He held a note-book and pencil, but that he had not been above lending physical assistance, on occasion, to the natives bearing bags and other merchandise, was evident from his hands which were grimy as a stevedore’s.  His shirt was open at the throat, and his face, too, bore marks of toil.  Betty Dalrymple stepped impetuously toward him; she looked as fresh as a flower, and held out a hand gloved in immaculate white.

“Dare I?” he laughed.

“If you don’t!” Her eyes dared him not to take it.

He looked at the hand, such a delicate thing, and seemed still in the least uncertain; then his fingers closed on it.

“You see I managed to find you,” she said.  “Who is that man who stares so?”