A NEW-FOUND THEORY

“No; the prince isn’t coming back to America, and she—­Miss Dalrymple—­isn’t going to marry him!”

Jane’s voice, running on rather at random, suddenly with unusual force penetrated Mr. Heatherbloom’s consciousness.

“Not going—­isn’t—­What are you talking about?” The young man’s wavering attention focused itself on her now with swift completeness.  He had hardly heard her, until a few moments before, when her conversation had first drifted to that ever fascinating feminine topic of foreign lords and American heiresses, then narrowed down, much to his inward disapproval, to one particular titled individual and one particular heiress “But you are mistaken, of course!” he said bruskly.

“Oh, am I?” she retorted.  “I suppose you believe everything you read in the newspapers?”

Mr. Heatherbloom did not answer now; he was staring out of the window.  Against the sky the jutting lines of buildings seemed to waver; new extraordinary angles and jogs seemed to assert themselves.  His gaze had a glittering brightness when it turned.  “Have you any better authority?”

His tone was a challenge.  “I heard her tell him so myself,” she said succinctly.  “That she could never marry him and that he must never come back.”

Mr. Heatherbloom’s hand crumpled the newspaper; then mechanically he folded it and put it in his pocket.  His look was once more bent outward; tiny specks, that were big steamboats going very fast, seemed motionless on the sparkling surface of the water afar.  His thoughts scattered; he tried to collect them, to realize where he was, how he happened to be there; the identity of the speaker and what she had been saying!  Certain preconceived, fixed ideas and conclusions had been toppled over, brushed aside in an instant.  Was it possible?

“I was waiting to trim and fill the lamps,” said Jane. (Miss Van Rolsen clung to oil lamps for reading.) “The prince and she were in the library.  He has a loud voice, you know.”

The young man did.  “But why—­”

“Search me!” Vivaciously.  “He was the very pick of the whole cargo of dukes and the like.  There isn’t another girl in New York would have done it.”

“But surely,” scarcely hearing her last words, “no newspaper would dare to announce such a thing without—­”

“Oh, wouldn’t it?  When it called up the house every day, almost, and got:  ‘There is nothing to say’?  Didn’t I answer the ’phone once or twice myself?  ’Miss Van Rolsen declines to be interviewed concerning her niece.  She has nothing to say.’  I think I once giggled, the man’s voice at the other end was so aggressive.  He said he was the city editor himself.  Is that very high up?”

Mr. Heatherbloom did not seem to hear.  He scarcely saw his companion now; nevertheless, he was conscious of a desire to be alone, in order to concentrate, consider, reach for light and find it.  But where could he discover a safe spot; his problem was a dual one; primarily, he must consider himself; he must not forget his own desperate situation and danger.  The train, beginning to slacken, brought the sense of it once more poignantly to mind.  His companion hadn’t reached the station yet but he suddenly rose.  The car stopped with a jerk; Mr. Heatherbloom murmured something hurriedly and dived for the door.