The next morning when Tony awoke Alan had already left for his long journey, but a great box full of roses told her she had been his last thought.  One by one she lifted them out of the box—­great, gorgeous, blood red beauties, royal, Tony thought, like the royal lover who had sent them.  The only message with the flowers was a bit of verse, a poem of Tagore’s whom Alan loved and had taught Tony to love too.

 You are the evening cloud floating in the sky of
     my dreams. 
 I paint you and fashion you with my love longings. 
 You are my own, my own, Dweller in my endless
     dreams!

 Your feet are rosy-red with the glow of my heart’s
     desire, Gleaner of my sunset songs! 
 Your lips are bitter-sweet with the taste of my wine
     of pain. 
 You are my own, my own, Dweller in my lonesome
     dreams!

 With the shadow of my passion have I darkened
     your eyes, Haunter of the depth of my gaze! 
 I have caught you and wrapt you, my love, in the
     net of my music. 
 You are my own, my own, Dweller in my deathless
     dreams!

As she read the exquisite lines Antoinette Holiday knew it was all true.  The poet might have written his poem for her and Alan.  Her lips were indeed bitter-sweet with the taste of his wine of pain, her eyes were darkened by his shadows.  He had caught her and wrapt her in the net of his love, which was a kind of music in itself—­a music one danced to.  She was his, dweller in his dreams as he was always to dwell in hers.  It was fate.

CHAPTER XXXIII

WAITING FOR THE END OF THE STORY

At home on the Hill Ruth’s affairs developed slowly.  It was in time ascertained from Australia that the Farringdon pearls had come to America in the possession of Miss Farringdon who was named Elinor Ruth, daughter of Roderick and Esther Farringdon, both deceased.  What had become of her and her pearls no one knew.  Grave fears had been entertained as to the girl’s safety because of her prolonged silence and the utter failure of all the advertising for her which had gone on in English and American papers.  She had come to America to join an aunt, one Mrs. Robert Wright, widow of a New York broker, but it had been later ascertained that Mrs. Wright had left for England before her niece could have reached her and had subsequently died having caught a fever while engaged in nursing in a military hospital.  Roderick Farringdon, the brother of Elinor Ruth, an aviator in His Majesty’s service, was reported missing, believed to be dead or in a German prison somewhere.  The lawyers in charge of the huge business interests of the two young Farringdons were in grave distress because of their inability to locate either of the owners and begged that if Doctor Laurence Holiday knew anything of the whereabouts of Miss Farringdon that he would communicate without delay with them.