His mind was full of her.  Every vehicle that passed attracted his gaze, for he speculated that she might be in one of them.  Not a well-dressed woman came within the range of his vision but she was subjected to a hurried inspection, even from a distance.  He strode slowly along, looking intently at each house.  None of them seemed to him to hold the object of his search.  As his steps carried him farther and farther into the beautiful avenue he began to smile to himself and his plodding spirit wavered.  After all, thought he, no one but a silly ass would attempt to find a person in a great city after the fashion he was pursuing.  He was deciding to board a tramcar and return to the hotel when, at some distance ahead, he saw a young lady run hurriedly down the steps of an impressive looking house.

He recognized Dorothy Garrison, and with a thump of exultation his heart urged him across the street toward her.  She evidently had not seen him; her eyes were on the ground and she seemed preoccupied.  In her hand she held a letter.  A gasp of astonishment, almost of alarm, came from her lips, her eyes opened wide in that sort of surprise which reveals something like terror, and then she crumpled the letter in her hand spasmodically.

“I thought you lived down here somewhere,” he exclaimed, joyfully, seizing her hand. “’I knew I could find you.”

“I—­I am so glad to see you,” she stammered, with a brave effort to recover from the shock his appearance had created.  “What are you doing here, Phil?”

“Looking for you, Dorothy.  Shall I post your letter?”

She was still standing as if rooted to the spot, the letter in a sad plight.

“Oh, I’ll not—­not post it now.  I should have sent the footman.  Come with me and see mamma.  I know she will be glad to have you here,” she hurried, in evident confusion.  She bethought herself suddenly and made an effort to withdraw the letter from its rather conspicuous position.  The hand containing it was drawn behind her back.

“That will be very nice of her.  Better post the letter, though.  Somebody’s expecting it, you know.  Hullo!  That’s not a nice way to treat a letter.  Let me straighten it out for you.’’

“Never mind, Phil—­really, I don’t care about it.  You surprised me so tremendously that I fear I’ve ruined it.  Now I shall have to write another.”

“Fiddlesticks!  Send it as it is.  The prince will blame the postoffice people,” cried he.

“It is not for the prince,” she cried, quickly, and then became more confused than ever.  “Come to the house, Phil.  You must tell me how you happen to be here.”

As they walked slowly to the Garrison home and mounted the steps, she religiously held the epistle where he could not regard it too closely should his curiosity overcome his prudence.  They were ushered into the reception room, and she directed the footman to ask if Mrs. Garrison could see Mr. Quentin.