Westover hardly believed him.  But when he got on his own things again, Jeff joined him in his hat and overcoat, and they went out together.

It was another carriage that stopped the way now, and once more the barker made the night ring with what Westover felt his heartless and shameless cries for Miss Lynde’s carriage.  After a maddening delay, it lagged up to the curb and Jeff pulled the door open.

“Hello!” he said.  “There’s nobody here!”

“Nobody there?” cried Westover, and they fell upon the coachman with wild question and reproach; the policeman had to tell him at last that the carriage must move on, to make way for others.

The coachman had no explanation to offer:  he did not know how or when Mr. Alan had got away.

“But you can give a guess where he’s gone?” Jeff suggested, with a presence of mind which Westover mutely admired.

“Well, sor, I know where he do be gahn, sometimes,” the man admitted.

“Well, that will do; take me there,” said Jeff.  “You go in and account for me to Miss Lynde,” he instructed Westover, across his shoulder.  “I’ll get him home before morning, somehow; and I’ll send the carriage right back for the ladies, now.”

Westover had the forethought to decide that Miss Bessie should ask for Jeff if she wanted him, and this simplified matters very much.  She asked nothing about him.  At sight of Westover coming up to her where she sat with her aunt, she merely said:  “Why, Mr. Westover!  I thought you took leave of this scene of gayety long ago.”

“Did you?” Westover returned, provisionally, and she saved him from the sin of framing some deceit in final answer by her next question.

“Have you seen anything of Alan lately?” she asked, in a voice involuntarily lowered.

Westover replied in the same octave:  “Yes; I saw him going a good while ago.”

“Oh!” said the girl.  “Then I think my aunt and I had better go, too.”

Still she did not go, and there was an interval in which she had the air of vaguely waiting.  To Westover’s vision, the young people still passing to and from the ballroom were like the painted figures of a picture quickened with sudden animation.  There were scarcely any elders to be seen now, except the chaperons, who sat in their places with iron fortitude; Westover realized that he was the only man of his age left.  He felt that the lights ought to have grown dim, but the place was as brilliant as ever.  A window had been opened somewhere, and the cold breath of the night was drawing through the heated rooms.

He was content to have Bessie stay on, though he was almost dropping with sleep, for he was afraid that if she went at once, the carriage might not have got back, and the whole affair must somehow be given away; at last, if she were waiting, she decided to wait no longer, and then Westover did not know how to keep her.  He saw her rise and stoop over her aunt, putting her mouth to the elder lady’s ear, and he heard her saying, “I am going home, Aunt Louisa.”  She turned sweetly to him.  “Won’t you let us set you down, Mr. Westover?”