I followed his advice, and the first return brought me news.  Gretchen was at present in Vienna.  So we journeyed to Vienna, futilely.  Then commenced a dogged, persistent search.  I dragged my cousin hither and thither about the kingdom; from village to train, from train to city, till his life became a burden to him and his patience threadbare.  At Hohenphalia, the capital, we were treated coldly; we were not known; they were preparing the palace for the coronation of Her Serene Highness the Princess Elizabeth; the Princess Hildegarde might be in Brussels.  At Brussels Her Highness was in Munich, at Munich she was in Heidelberg, and so on and so on.  It was truly discouraging.  The vaguest rumor brought me to the railway, Pembroke, laughing and grumbling, always at my heels.  At last I wrote to Phyllis; it was the one hope left.  Her reply was to the effect that she, too, did not know where her sister was, that she was becoming a puzzle to her, and concluded with the advice to wait till the coronation, when Gretchen would put in appearance, her presence being imperative.  So weeks multiplied and became months, winter passed, the snows fell from the mountains, the floods rose and subsided, summer was at hand with her white boughs and green grasses.  May was blooming into June.  Still Gretchen remained in obscurity.  Sometimes in my despair I regretted having loved her, and half resolved to return to Phyllis, where (and I flushed at the thought!) I could find comfort and consolation.  And yet—­and yet!

“I shall be a physical wreck,” said Pembroke, when we finally returned to B——­, “if you keep this up much longer.”

“Look at me!” was my gloomy rejoinder.

“Well, you have that interesting pallor,” he admitted, “which women ascribe to lovers.”

Thrusting my elbows on the table, I buried my chin in my hands and stared.  After a while I said:  “I do not believe she wants to be found.”

“That has been my idea this long while,” he replied, “only I did not wish to make you more despondent than you were.”

So I became resigned—­as an animal becomes resigned to its cage.  I resolved to tear her image from my heart, to go with Pembroke to the jungles and shoot tigers; to return in some dim future bronzed, gray-haired and noted.  For above all things I intended to get at my books again, to make romances instead of living them.

There were times when I longed to go to Phyllis and confide my troubles to her, but a certain knowledge held me back.

One morning, when I had grown outwardly calm, I said to Pembroke:  “Philip, I shall go with you to India.”

“Here is a letter for you,” he replied; “it may change your plans.”

My mail, since leaving the journalistic field, had become so small that to receive a letter was an event.  As I stretched forth a hand for the letter my outward calm passed swiftly, and my heart spoke in a voice of thunder.  I could not recall the chirography on the envelope.  The hand, I judged, which had held the pen was more familiar with flays and scythes.  Inside of the envelope I discovered only six words, but they meant all the world to me.  “She is here at the inn.”  It was unsigned.  I waved the slip of paper before Pembroke’s eyes.