A young man, with the kisses of his mother sweet on his pure lips, had left her for an evening’s social enjoyment at the house of one of her closest and dearest friends, and she never looked upon his face again.  He had entered the house of that friend with a clear head and steady nerves, and he had gone out at midnight bewildered with the wine that had been poured without stint to her hundred guests, young and old.  How it had fared with him the reader knows too well.

CHAPTER III.

“Heavens and earth!  Why doesn’t some one go to the door?” exclaimed Mr. Spencer Birtwell, rousing himself from a heavy sleep as the bell was rung for the third time, and now with four or five vigorous and rapid jerks, each of which caused the handle of the bell to strike with the noise of a hammer.

The gray dawn was just breaking.

“There it is again!  Good heavens!  What does it mean?” and Mr. Birtwell, now fairly awake, started up in bed and sat listening.  Scarcely a moment intervened before the bell was pulled again, and this time continuously for a dozen times.  Springing from the bed, Mr. Birtwell threw open a window, and looking out, saw two policemen at the door.

“What’s wanted?” he called down to them.

“Was there a young man here last night named Voss?” inquired one of the men.

“What about him?” asked Mr. Birtwell.

“He hasn’t been home, and his friends are alarmed.  Do you know where he is?”

“Wait, returned Mr. Birtwell; and shutting down the window, he dressed himself hurriedly.

“What is it?” asked his wife, who had been awakened from a heavy slumber by the noise at the window.

“Archie Voss didn’t get home last night.”

“What?” and Mrs. Birtwell started out of bed.

“There are two policemen at the door.”

“Policemen!”

“Yes; making a grand row for nothing, as if young men never stayed away from home.  I must go down and see them.  Go back into bed again, Margaret.  You’ll take your death o’ cold.  There’s nothing to be alarmed about.  He’ll come up all right.”

But Mrs. Birtwell did not return to her bed.  With warm wrapper thrown about her person, she stood at the head of the stairway while her husband went down to admit the policemen.  All that could be learned from them was that Archie Voss had not come home from the party, and that his friends were greatly alarmed about him.  Mr. Birtwell had no information to give.  The young man had been at his house, and had gone away some time during the night, but precisely at what hour he could not tell.

“You noticed him through the evening?” said one of the policemen.

“Oh yes, certainly.  We know Archie very well.  He’s always been intimate at our house.”

“Did he take wine freely?”

An indignant denial leaped to Mr. Birtwell’s tongue, but the words died unspoken, for the image of Archie, with flushed face and eyes too bright for sober health, holding in his hand a glass of sparkling champagne, came vividly before him.