“Not more freely than other young men,” he replied.  “Why do you ask?”

“There are two theories of his absence,” said the policeman.  “One is that he has been set upon in the street, robbed and murdered, and the other that, stupefied and bewildered by drink, he lost himself in the storm, and lies somewhere frozen to death and hidden under the snow.”

A cry of pain broke from the lips of Mrs. Birtwell, and she came hurrying down stairs.  Too well did she remember the condition of Archie when she last saw him—­Archie, the only son of her oldest and dearest friend, the friend she had known and loved since girlhood.  He was not fit to go out alone in that cold and stormy night; and a guilty sense of responsibility smote upon her heart and set aside all excuses.

“What about his mother?” she asked, anxiously.  “How is she bearing this dreadful suspense?”

“I can’t just say, ma’am,” was answered, “but I think they’ve had the doctor with her all night—­that is, all the last part of the night.  She’s lying in a faint, I believe.”

“Oh, it will kill her!  Poor Frances!  Poor Frances!” wailed out Mrs. Birtwell, wringing her hands and beginning to cry bitterly.

“The police have been on the lookout for the last two or three hours, but can’t find any trace of him,” said the officer.

“Oh, he’ll turn up all right,” broke in Mr. Birtwell, with a confident tone.  “It’s only a scare.  Gone home with some young friend, as like as not.  Young fellows in their teens don’t get lost in the snow, particularly in the streets of a great city, and footpads generally know their game before bringing it down.  I’m sorry for poor Mrs. Voss; she isn’t strong enough to bear such a shock.  But it will all come right; I don’t feel a bit concerned.”

But for all that he did feel deeply concerned.  The policemen went away, and Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell sat down by an open grate in which the fire still burned.

“Don’t let it distress you so, Margaret,” said the former, trying to comfort his wife.  “There’s nothing to fear for Archie.  Nobody ever heard of a man getting lost in a city snow-storm.  If he’d been out on a prairie, the case would have been different, but in the streets of the city!  The thing’s preposterous, Margaret.”

“Oh, if he’d only gone away as he came, I wouldn’t feel so awfully about it,” returned Mrs. Birtwell.  “That’s what cuts me to the heart.  To think that he came to my house sober and went away—­”

She caught back from her tongue the word she would have spoken, and shivered.

“Nothing of the kind, Margaret, nothing of the kind,” said her husband, quickly.  “A little gay—­that was all.  Just what is seen at parties every night.  Archie hasn’t much head, and a single glass of champagne is enough to set it buzzing.  But it’s soon over.  The effervescence goes off in a little while, and the head comes clear again.”

Mrs. Birtwell did not reply.  Her eyes were cast down and her face deeply distressed.