In the mean time Gorham had sought Eleanor and Alice, and told them the news which had come to him so unexpectedly.  The problem now was to find the second Mrs. Buckner, and as quickly as possible.  James had explained to Mr. Gorham that even Buckner himself did not know where the woman was.  He had lived in several cities during the last few years.  His wife might have died or moved away; but as Gorham pointed out in answer to the doubts Eleanor and his daughter expressed, if it was a fact, there must be a way to find conclusive evidence.

“I cannot delay a moment,” Gorham at length declared.  “It will take some time at best to run this matter down, and with the certainty so near at hand to prove our fears groundless, I am all impatience to take steps toward securing the actual evidence itself.  It is imperative that I leave for Chicago to-morrow, and I must get this investigation under way before then.”

Eleanor and Alice sat for some moments in silence after Gorham left the house.  The girl watched the older woman, waiting for her to speak.  The anxious lines were still in Eleanor’s face; her pallor remained, and Alice wondered that she gave no evidence of relief from the nerve-racking strain which she had endured, in the face of so hopeful a turn in the whole situation.  Still more, to the girl’s surprise, Eleanor rose abruptly from beside her, and walked irresolutely to the window.

“I cannot, I cannot,” she cried at last, all the pent-up feeling of the last few moments finding expression in these brief words.  Alice was quickly beside her.

“You cannot do what, dear?” she asked, sympathetically.

“I cannot tell him.”

“Haven’t you told him yet?” Alice asked, a shade of reproach showing in her voice.

Eleanor turned from the window and passed her arm around Alice’s waist.

“I have tried a hundred times.  The few opportunities when I might have done so naturally found me too weak; at other times it has been impossible.  Robert is so sweet and tender with me these days that the mere possibility of having him blame me is the most terrifying thought which I can have.”

“It ought not to be so hard now, dear.  Everything is going to be straightened out.  Already the burden is a good deal lighter than before because now we have something tangible to work upon.  This leaves you simply the one thing to think about, and of course father will believe everything you tell him.”

Eleanor looked at Alice irresolutely.  “It isn’t in the nature of man to be so credulous—­I doubt if I would believe the story myself if I heard any one else tell it.  Under these circumstances, how can I expect more from your father?”

“Because it is—­father,” the girl replied, feelingly “—­because he’s the grandest, noblest, truest man who ever lived; because he loves you, Eleanor; and because he believes in you as he believes in himself.”

“If I did not know of this belief in me, Alice dear, and was not so jealous of it, perhaps I should not fear to bring the matter to the test.  But, of course, you are right.  He must know the whole story, and he must know it from me.  I only hope that the opportunity may offer itself naturally for me to tell him, under such conditions as will make it appear less incredible than it does just now.”