One morning he received in the mail the long-expected note from the bishop, making an appointment for the next day.  Hodder, as he read it over again, smiled to himself. . .  He could gather nothing of the mind of the writer from the contents.

The piece of news which came to him on the same morning swept completely the contemplations of the approaching interview from his mind.  Sally Grover stopped in at the parish house on her way to business.

“Kate Marcy’s gone,” she announced, in her abrupt fashion.

“Gone!” he exclaimed, and stared at her in dismay.  “Gone where?”

“That’s just it,” said Miss Grover.  “I wish I knew.  I reckon we’d got into the habit of trusting her too much, but it seemed the only way.  She wasn’t in her room last night, but Ella Finley didn’t find it out until this morning, and she ran over scared to death, to tell us about it.”

Involuntarily the rector reached for his hat.

“I’ve sent out word among our friends in Dalton Street,” Sally continued.  An earthquake could not have disturbed her outer, matter-of-fact calmness.  But Hodder was not deceived:  he knew that she was as profoundly grieved and discouraged as himself.  “And I’ve got old Gratz, the cabinet-maker, on the job.  If she’s in Dalton Street, he’ll find her.”

“But what—?” Hodder began.

Sally threw up her hands.

“You never can tell, with that kind.  But it sticks in my mind she’s done something foolish.”

“Foolish?”

Sally twitched, nervously.

“Somehow I don’t think it’s a spree—­but as I say, you can’t tell.  She’s full of impulses.  You remember how she frightened us once before, when she went off and stayed all night with the woman she used to know in the flat house, when she heard she was sick?”

Hodder nodded.

“You’ve inquired there?”

“That woman went to the hospital, you know.  She may be with another one.  If she is, Gratz ought to find her. . .  You know there was a time, Mr. Hodder, when I didn’t have much hope that we’d pull her through.  But we got hold of her through her feelings.  She’d do anything for Mr. Bentley —­she’d do anything for you, and the way she stuck to that embroidery was fine.  I don’t say she was cured, but whenever she’d feel one of those fits coming on she’d let us know about it, and we’d watch her.  And I never saw one of that kind change so.  Why, she must be almost as good looking now as she ever was.”

“You don’t think she has done anything—­desperate?” asked Hodder, slowly.

Sally comprehended.

“Well—­somehow I don’t.  She used to say if she ever got drunk again she’d never come back.  But she didn’t have any money—­she’s given Mr. Bentley every cent of it.  And we didn’t have any warning.  She was as cheerful as could be yesterday morning, Mrs. McQuillen says.”

“It might not do any harm to notify the police,” replied Hodder, rising.  “I’ll go around to headquarters now.”