Peter was dazed at first.  Even when Marie, hastily summoned, had discovered that Harmony’s clothing was gone, when a search of the rooms revealed the absence of her violin and her music, when at last the fact stared them, incontestable, in the face, Peter refused to accept it.  He sat for a half-hour or even more by the fire in the salon, obstinately refusing to believe she was gone, keeping the supper warm against her return.  He did not think or reason, he sat and waited, saying nothing, hardly moving, save when a gust of wind slammed the garden gate.  Then he was all alive, sat erect, ears straining for her hand on the knob of the outer door.

The numbness of the shock passed at last, to be succeeded by alarm.  During all the time that followed, that condition persisted, fright, almost terror.  Harmony alone in the city, helpless, dependent, poverty-stricken.  Harmony seeking employment under conditions Peter knew too well.  But with his alarm came rage.

Marie had never seen Peter angry.  She shrank from this gaunt and gray-faced man who raved up and down the salon, questioning the frightened Portier, swearing fierce oaths, bringing accusation after accusation against some unnamed woman to whom he applied epithets that Marie’s English luckily did not comprehend.  Not a particularly heroic figure was Peter that night:  a frantic, disheveled individual, before whom the Portier cowered, who struggled back to sanity through a berserk haze and was liable to swift relapses into fury again.

To this succeeded at last the mental condition that was to be Peter’s for many days, hopelessness and alarm and a grim determination to keep on searching.

There were no clues.  The Portier made inquiries of all the cabstands in the neighborhood.  Harmony had not taken a cab.  The delicatessen seller had seen her go out that afternoon with a bundle and return without it.  She had been gone only an hour or so.  That gave Peter a ray of hope that she might have found a haven in the neighborhood—­until he recalled the parcel-post.

One possibility he clung to:  Mrs. Boyer had made the mischief, but she had also offered the girl a home.  She might be at the Boyers’.  Peter, flinging on a hat and without his overcoat, went to the Boyers’.  Time was valuable, and he had wasted an hour, two hours, in useless rage.  So he took a taxicab, and being by this time utterly reckless of cost let it stand while he interviewed the Boyers.

Boyer himself, partially undressed, opened the door to his ring.  Peter was past explanation or ceremonial.

“Is Harmony here?” he demanded.

“Harmony?”

“Harmony Wells.  She’s disappeared, missing.”

“Come in,” said Boyer, alive to the strain in Peter’s voice.  “I don’t know, I haven’t heard anything.  I’ll ask Mrs. Boyer.”

During the interval it took for a whispered colloquy in the bedroom, and for Mrs. Boyer to don her flannel wrapper, Peter suffered the tortures of the damned.  Whatever Mrs. Boyer had meant to say by way of protest at the intrusion on the sacred privacy of eleven o’clock and bedtime died in her throat.  Her plump and terraced chin shook with agitation, perhaps with guilt.  Peter, however, had got himself in hand.  He told a quiet story; Boyer listened; Mrs. Boyer, clutching her wrapper about her unstayed figure, listened.