“Florine, I have been obliged to leave home very suddenly.  My preparations are all complete.  I thought I would not wake you as I had so little to do.  Tell Peter to have the carriage at the door at six precisely, and bring up Leo’s breakfast, and a cup of hot coffee for me.”

At six o’clock—­having written a note to Mr. Farley, and one to her aunt, giving no explanations, but merely saying she had been called away—­she put on her bonnet, entered the carriage and was driven to the depot.  And before nine-tenths of New York had thought of leaving their beds, she was being whirled rapidly northward, her only companion Leo, who, watchful and alert, lay curled up on the seat beside her.

* * * * *

Archer Trevlyn had not slept that night.  Some sense of impending evil, some demon of uneasiness oppressed him strangely.  He tossed about until daybreak, then he rose, dressed himself, and went out.  Everything was still on the streets except the clatter of the milk carts, and the early drays and huckster wagons.  The air was damp and dense, and struck a deadly chill to the very marrow of this unseasonable wanderer.  He walked a few squares, and then returned to his hotel, more oppressed than when he went out.

Did ever time move so slowly before?  Would the morning never pass?  He wrote some urgent letters, read the damp morning paper, without the slightest notion of contents, and went down to his breakfast, to come away again leaving it untasted.  Eight o’clock!  The earliest possible hour at which it would be proper to call on Miss Harrison was eleven.  Three mortal hours first!  How should he ever endure it?  She might be very ill.  She might even be dying?  Archer, with the foolish inconsistency of love, magnified every evil until he was nearly beside himself with dread, lest she might be worse that Miss Lee had represented.

Nine o’clock struck; he was walking the floor in a state of nervous excitement which would have forced him ere long to have broken all rules of etiquette and taken his way to Harrison House, had not fate saved him the necessity.

A waiter entered, and brought in a letter and a package.  He snatched them both, and saw they were directed in Margie’s handwriting.  For a moment his heart stood still with a deadly fear.  Great drops of perspiration covered his forehead, and he dropped letter and package to the floor.  Why was she writing to him when she must expect to see him in a few hours?  And that package! what did it contain?

He picked it up, and tore off the wrappings.  The betrothal ring rolled out and fell with a hollow sound on the floor.  The ring he had put upon her finger—­the ring he had seen her kiss more than once!  He looked over the contents of the box hurriedly; every little thing he had ever given her was there, even to a bunch of faded violets!

But the letter?  He had almost forgotten it, in pondering over the dread significance of the return of his presents.  He took it up, and broke the seal with slow deliberation.  It would not tell him any news, but it might contain an explanation.  His face grew pale as ashes as he read, and he put his hand to his heart, as though he had received a blow there.  Twice he read it through, and at the last reading he seemed to realize its dread portent.