“She gives me up!  Margie renounces me!  Strangers we must be henceforth!  What does it all mean?  Am I indeed awake, or is this only a painful dream?”

He read a few lines of the missive a third time.  Something of the old dominant spirit of Archer Trevlyn came back to him.

“There is some misunderstanding.  Margie has been told some dire falsehood!” he exclaimed, starting up.  “I will know everything.  She shall explain fully.”

He seized his hat and hurried to her residence.  The family were at breakfast, the servant said, who opened the door.  He asked to see Miss Harrison.

“Miss Harrison left this morning, sir, in the early express,” said the man, eying Trevlyn with curious interest.

“Went in the early train!  Can you tell me where she has gone?”

“I cannot.  Perhaps her aunt, Miss Farnsworth, or Miss Lee can do so.”

“Very well;” he made a desperate effort to seem calm, for the servant’s observant eye warned him that he was not acting himself.  “Will you please ask Miss Lee to favor me with a few minutes of her time?”

Miss Lee came into the parlor where Archer waited, a little afterward.  Archer, himself, was not more changed than she.  Her countenance was pale even to ghastliness, with the exception of a bright red spot on either cheek, and her eyes shone with such an unnatural light, that even Archer, absorbed as he was in his own troubles, noticed it.  She welcomed him quietly, in a somewhat constrained voice, and relapsed into silence.  Archer plunged at once upon what he came to ascertain.

“The servant tells me that Miss Harrison left New York this morning.  I am very anxious to communicate with her.  Can you tell me wither she has gone?”

“I cannot.  She left before any of the family were up, and though she left notes for both her aunt and her business agent, Mr. Farley, she did not in either of them mention her destination.”

“And she did not speak to you about it?”

“She did not.  I spent a part of last evening with her, just before you came, but she said nothing to me of her intention.  She was not quite well, and desired me to ask you to excuse her from going to the opera.”

“And you did not see her this morning?”

“No.  I have not seen her since I left her room to come down to you last night.  When I returned from my interview with you, I tapped at her door—­in fact, I tapped at it several times during the evening, for I feared she might be worse—­but I got no reply, and supposed she had retired.  No one saw her this morning, except Florine, her maid, and Peter, the coachman, who drove her to the depot.”

“And she went entirely alone?”

“She did from the house.  Peter took her in the carriage.”

“From the House! But after that?” he asked, eagerly.

“Mr. Trevlyn,” she said, coldly, “excuse me.”

“I must know!” he cried; passionately grasping her arm; “tell me, did she set out upon this mysterious journey alone?”