“What did sister Sarah say?” asked Aunt Ella.

“Well,” said Quincy, “I resolved to do something desperate, so I asked:  ‘Doesn’t she look countrified?’ again asking your pardon, Mrs. Sawyer.”

“No,” said mother, “she has the repose of a Lady Clara Vere de Vere, and is as correct in her speech as was the Lady Elfrida Hastings.”

“It will come out all right,” cried Aunt Ella; and Quincy, kissing his aunt and wife, and promising to write or telegraph every day, caught up his hand-bag and started forth in search of the Hon. Stuart Fernborough, M.P.

When Quincy left his aunt’s house he had not the slightest idea which way would be the best to turn his footsteps.  He commenced his search, however, at the Revere House, then he tried the American House, but at neither place was Mr. Fernborough a guest.

At the Quincy House the clerk was busy with a number of new arrivals.  He had just opened a new hotel register, and the old one lay upon the counter.  Quincy took it up, and turning over the leaves, glanced up and down its pages.  Suddenly he started back; then, holding the book closer to his eyes he read it again.  There it was, under the date of September 10, “Mdme. Rose Archimbault and daughter.”  The residence given in the proper column was “New York.”  Quincy kept the book open at the place where he found this entry until the clerk was at leisure.  He remembered Mdme. Archimbault and daughter in a general way.  He was sure that they arrived from Europe the day that they came to the hotel, and he was equally sure that they went to New York when they left.  What made him positive was that he remembered asking the young lady when she wrote New York in the register if she had not just returned from Europe.  She said yes, but that her home residence was in New York.

Quincy thanked the clerk, and started forth again in search of the elusive Mr. Fernborough.  A visit to Young’s, Parker’s, and the Tremont furnished no clue, and Quincy was wondering whether his search, after all, was destined to be fruitless, when he thought of a small hotel in Central Court, which led from Washington Street, a little south of Summer Street.

It was noted for its English roast beef, Yorkshire mutton chops, and musty ale, and might be just the sort of place that an English gentleman would put up at, provided he had been informed of its whereabouts.

On his way Quincy dropped into the Marlborough, but Mr. Fernborough had not been there, and Quincy imagined that the little hotel in Central Court was his last hope.

His persistence was rewarded.  Mr. Fernborough was not only a guest, but he was in his room.  Quincy sent up his card, and in a very short time was shown into the presence of a courtly gentleman, between sixty and seventy years of age.  His face was smooth shaven, and had a firm but not hard expression.  His eyes, however, showed that he was weighed down by some sorrow, which the unyielding expression of his face indicated that he would bear in silence rather than seek sympathy from others.