JOHN MORTON walked the windy deck of the ship as though he were tramping all the way to Europe. He counted the throbbings of the great engine and the turns of the screws, so anxious and impatient was he. The hours were like days and the days like weeks.

Two months had passed since he had placed HelÈne in Mr. Tyler’s care, and those two months had left their marks on him. They had changed him from an adventurous, happy young fellow into a sober, thoughtful man. But while his brow had become lined his heart still preserved its faith and hope. He had made up his mind that he would seek out HelÈne and marry her at once, if she would have him. During his enforced absence in America he experienced so overwhelming a desire that he could scarce restrain himself from throwing everything up to satisfy his heart’s cravings for a mere sight of her lovely face. In his thoughts she stood out, by day and by night, as a thing for reverence and worship.

Surely, by this time Don would have traced her; and he pictured to himself the very place he would meet her, how he would greet her, the lovely face as it would look in response to his pleadings.

In Liverpool, disquieting telegrams and letters awaited him. No trace of the Comtesse. The Princess wrote to say that she knew nothing of HelÈne’s whereabouts. She had left a short note on leaving Weimar, but it contained no reference to where she was going. She had drawn some money out of the bank, and that was all she could learn there. Her maid knew nothing definite.

Mr. Tyler had written in like manner. The police of Dresden, Munich, Berlin and Vienna had been communicated with, but with no results. Detectives had been employed to no purpose. HelÈne seemed to have disappeared from off the face of the earth.

“The idiots!” muttered John in anger, “they couldn’t find the Great Pyramid in a ten-acre lot.”

At Weimar he spent hours going over everything with Donald; but what that faithful servitor reported served only to deepen the mystery. One thing, however, was clear—HelÈne had left in a very unhappy state of mind.

He wrote an urgent note to the Princess requesting an interview. The interview was a painful one to both. The Princess broke down and bemoaned her bitter fate—her inability to protect her friend. She told him the whole story of the scene in the reception-room and its cause.

Faugh! The thing was nauseating to John. What a Court! What people these princelets were! He guessed instinctively that it was Witherspoon who was responsible for the article. He would settle with that fellow another time. He left the Princess feeling no great respect for her courage, and more resolved than ever to leave no stone unturned.

And now he began a systematic hunt, on his own account, throughout almost all Europe. Advertisements were printed in the principal newspapers. Police records and hotel registers examined, detectives employed. Blue-eyed girls who read HelÈne’s description in the advertisements dreamed thrilling romances and envied the maid who, no doubt, was the heiress to some enormously rich uncle. Girls with gray eyes thought them blue and weaved tales of a Prince Charming coming to set them free. Old maids sighed and old men smiled. But, with all the interest that was excited, and despite the lavish expenditure of money, the real HelÈne remained undiscovered.

Weeks went by and Morton became very anxious. He grew nervous and restless. As he walked the streets he would examine every young woman he passed with quick, furtive glances in the vain hope that one of them might be HelÈne.

He consulted with Mr. Tyler frequently and that wise man told him not to worry. The girl herself, he felt sure, would write to him. John clung desperately to this suggestion. He began calculating the time it would take a letter to get back to him from America should she have written him there. Judge Lowell had his instructions and would cable him immediately on its receipt. The thought calmed him greatly and he thanked Tyler. He would wait in Weimar until the end of February, by which time he reckoned a letter might arrive in Cleveland.

Tyler’s judgment was justified. On the twenty-seventh Morton received a cable from his lawyer informing him that a letter from Germany had been received and asking for instructions. He promptly cabled back to open the letter and wire him the whereabouts of the writer.

The answer came: “Party left for place not given. Intends to remain hidden for some time. Is well. Promises to write in good time. Copy mailed. My advice not to worry. Family all well.”

There was nothing to do now but to wait. His fears, it is true, were allayed, but how long would it he before he would hear from her again? And what should he do meanwhile? On referring his perplexity to Tyler, that sensible man suggested that he should take a trip around Germany and look up his old haunts. He decided to do this.

As there was now nothing which should keep McCormick in Weimar, he sent him home, there to await further orders. He himself went to Bonn, his Alma Mater, and from there to Munich, where he renewed his acquaintance with an assistant professor of philosophy, whom he found happily married. This last visit did him great good. The peaceful home of his old tutor, where he stayed a few days, acted beneficially on his nerves and gave him a taste of genuine happiness which lasted him for many days.

But his restlessness returned. He could not reconcile himself to patient waiting. His thoughts of HelÈne, who was never entirely out of his mind, were charged with anxiety about her welfare. She was so inexperienced, so young, so beautiful that he felt she would never be able to fight her way alone. He knew how cruel the world could be to one of her sensitive nature.

Obeying an irresistible impulse he suddenly took a train for Vienna. It was there he had last seen HelÈne. He stayed at the Bristol and idled his time wandering aimlessly round the city pleasing himself with the memories the place recalled. The son of Dan Morton the pioneer was no longer the hard-headed man of business. He had become nature’s child—the young male longing for his mate. His mother was right; there was more of the idealistic Randolphs than of the practical Mortons in him. At the same time, his training made him chafe because he could not accomplish what he had set his mind on so determinedly. Then the humor of the situation struck him and he laughed aloud. It was a saving grace of a laugh; for it brought back his common sense.

That evening, for the first time in many a day, he dressed and went to the opera. He listened to “Romeo and Julietta,” played by the splendid company of the Imperial Court. He had an entrancing time. Juliet was HelÈne and he Romeo. If only some kind-hearted fairy could have whispered to him that the same strains which were moving him to so exquisite a response would, later, stir her heart strings in like wise! But fairies have been banished from our sophisticated world. Only children see them and hold communion with them now.

From Vienna Morton went to Berlin and spent a few days with the Tylers. They were glad to see him looking so well and seeming more contented. “Youth is a wonderful gift,” thought the old diplomatist, while his wife could not resist saying to her husband: “What a pity the girl is so silly.”

At last the long-looked-for letter arrived. John read and reread it a dozen times, devouring every word and examining each single sentence for some hint for which his heart asked. He saw nothing to make him anxious, but he realized now that he must respect her resolutions. He gave up all further inquiries and search and returned to New York, quietly resolved and happily content to wait her own sweet pleasure. The fates would be kind to him, he was sure.

When Morton returned to America, he found that his mother and sister had gone South. He was not sorry they were away, since it left him free to give his entire thoughts and energies to the business—work, downright hard work was the best medicine for a mind distracted as his was. With Morton-like enthusiasm he plunged into the maelstrom of the many interests of his vast estates. He was at the office from morning until, often, late in the evening, consulting, directing, financing and operating. He took to the game like a duck to water, and found a new interest in its many-sided activities, and a new enjoyment in meeting the men who were playing the game either with him or against him. He was a king ruling a mighty empire, the safety and integrity of which depended largely on his wise judgment and decisive action. The experience ripened him.

It was during this period that a letter came from Mr. Tyler informing him that the Comtesse’s maid, Josephine, had heard from her aunt, Anna Schreiber, in Altenberg, giving important news concerning her mistress. It appeared that HelÈne, after leaving the Weimar Court, had stayed with her old nurse for some weeks in the quiet little suburb. HelÈne had exacted a promise from her nurse not to disclose her whereabouts; but now that she had suddenly left her, Anna had written to her niece to know if the Comtesse had returned to Weimar. Tyler had immediately gone to Altenberg to find out further details. He learned from Mrs. Schreiber that HelÈne had left a note stating that she was going to Munich; but on inquiry at the railway station he was told that no ticket for Munich had been sold on the day HelÈne had left. He concluded by assuring Morton that he would let him know if he learned anything of importance.

The receipt of this letter from Tyler threw John back into his old state of anxiety and restlessness. He absented himself from the office and spent the time alone in his study brooding over what he should do.

His business associates could not understand him. They had begun to admire the young man, and had thought him a chip of the old block. He had taken the reins with masterly hands and had proved himself a worthy successor to the old man. But this sudden change puzzled them.

With the approach of Easter Mrs. Morton and Ruth returned and John joined them in a quiet hotel on the avenue. The first breath of spring brought him the news that HelÈne had been in Hanover, but had left quite suddenly, no one knew where. Mr. Tyler, who sent the information, wound up his letter by advising John to give up troubling himself about the girl. “It is evident,” he wrote, “that she doesn’t want you to find her. Give up this useless hunt and sit down calmly and wait until she fulfills her promise to write to you.”

John smiled sadly as he read the well-meant advice. It was all very easy to write those words, but to act on them was not quite so simple. However, he made up his mind.

That evening he dined at his club and utterly surprised his friends by his liveliness and change of manner. They didn’t recognize the Morton who chatted to them in this free and easy way and told amusing stories with the rest. It was his first plunge into a sea of dissipation in which he swam as the mood seized him, which it not unfrequently did. In a short time, he was eagerly welcomed as “a sport” by those who considered themselves of that select order of beings. He went in for horses and fine carriages; gave sumptuous dinners, attended race meetings, and became the envy of the idle and the admiration of the foolish. Well might his business friends wonder what had come over John R. Morton!

His mother and sister were among the first to notice the alteration in him. It distressed them deeply. The two held a council of war and came to the conclusion that John needed a change. Mrs. Morton suggested a trip to Japan or papa’s hobby to convert the home on the Hudson into a Versailles, or a yacht.

But Ruth, with the wisdom that comes early to American maids, pursed her pretty lips and turned up her impudent little nose at her mother’s ideas.“No, dear mamma, none of those things will do,” she said decidedly. “John is in love. If he isn’t, he ought to be. What we must do is to get him married.”

Mrs. Morton opened her eyes wide at her daughter’s plain-spoken words. The precocity of the chicken was amusing and yet, it seemed to her, on second thought, that it hit the bull’s eye. The suggestion appealed to her strongly, and the woman in the mother could not resist the prospect of the peculiar pleasure of match-making. Besides, it was time John married. He was the head of the house.

Thus was formed the conspiracy in which two loving women sought to undo all that the object of their affection had been living for. Against such a combination, the strongest man must of necessity be helpless.

The coming of the spring, therefore, found the Mortons opening up their country residence on the Hudson. Officially John was the master, but actually he was a guest with the rest who were invited. The place was ruled by Ruth through her mother.

Every evening when John came from business he would find the house and its magnificent gardens and terraces taken possession of by friends who had been invited for a week or the week-end. Mostly these were young women—friends of Ruth whom she had known in college or had met at different seasons. He was introduced to them all. Some he found interesting, others amusing and others excellent companions at riding, golfing or sailing. Before he had realized it he began to look forward to these afternoons and evenings on the river. The lovely spring weather, too, acted on him like a tonic. He threw off his moroseness and entered into the spirit of the healthy gay life with all the gusto of youth.Occasionally, he would ask his sister the meaning of all this gayety and entertaining, but that young woman would look at him innocently with round eyes and would answer that she was just giving her friends a good time and having one herself. If he wouldn’t bring his friends, she had to bring hers. And Ruth would leave him not a little puzzled and also not at all displeased that things were as they were.

But if Ruth and her mother had expected that John would fall a victim to the fascinations of one of the many charming girls they had so cleverly placed in his way, they were doomed to bitter disappointment. He took things as he found them and enjoyed himself to the full. But it never went further. The pretty faces and alluring graces only served to remind him more poignantly of “the girl he had left behind him.” HelÈne’s sweet face, HelÈne’s blue eyes, HelÈne’s soft voice, were always in his mind, and if he ever was roused to a tender feeling for one of Ruth’s friends, the vision of HelÈne would rise up and he would sigh and turn away.

As the season advanced his mother and Ruth realized that their scheme, like many others of “mice and men,” had failed. It vexed Mrs. Morton and she took occasion to vent her feelings to her son.

“John, what’s the matter with you?” she asked, “why are you avoiding the girls who come here?”

John smiled and at once saw the meaning of the house-parties.

“Dear mother, I’m not avoiding them. I’ve had a delightful time, thanks to you and Ruth.”

“But don’t you think, dear, it’s time you settled down?”

“Oh, there’s still time for that. I’m only thirty-three.”

“Your father was married long before he was that age. He used to say that it was to his early marriage that he owed his success.”

“Ah, my dear mother, but you forget he was very lucky. There are not many girls like you in the world.”

His mother smiled and shook her head.

“It’s very nice of you to say that, John, but you know it’s no answer to my question. I am really serious. I want you to get married. I want to see you happy and the father of children. My old arms ache to hold a grandchild.”

The good lady’s eyes filled with tears. John was moved.

“Dear mother, you’re the best mother in the world. I’ll tell you the truth. I have not married because the woman I love is lost to me. I met her in Europe, as I told you, and she has disappeared. I’ve done all I could do to find her, but without success. I am waiting in the hope that I may meet her again.”

“Who is she, John?”

“The most beautiful and the noblest girl in the world.”

Mrs. Morton smiled plaintively and nodded slowly several times.

“Of course, my dear, but who is she? The girl you told me about when you came back?”

“Yes; but please don’t press me for further particulars. When I find her I will tell you. I hope with all my heart she will have me. I know you will love her. All I ask of you, dear mother, is to give me time.”

The good lady was greatly moved by this display of her son’s feelings. It was evident that this love which possessed him was a very serious one. John saw her anxiety and putting his arms round her shoulders, he said:

“Mother, dear, you will love her, too, I know. She is just about Ruth’s age and the loveliest girl God ever created. Won’t you, please, have faith in me? You will not be disappointed. If I can wait, surely, you can. Now, dear, just dry your eyes and believe that I know what is best for my happiness.”

She had to let the matter rest there. She told Ruth it was useless for them to go on with their plans, because John had plans of his own. An unfortunate remark to make to Ruth since it acted like a match to the dry tinder of her curiosity. Who was she? What was she? Where was she? Where had he met her? Where was she now? Would she meet her?

To all these questions Mrs. Morton could, of course, give no answer. John had not told her. They must wait his time. He did not himself know where she was. He was hoping to find her.

Ah, then it was a real romance! How fascinatingly interesting! And Ruth, afraid to question her brother herself, gave free rein to her imagination. Nothing but a princess would satisfy her ideas of what her brother deserved. She must be the daughter of one of the Balkan kings, and the lady had to wait until she was called to the throne. She hoped, however, John wouldn’t get mixed up in those wars there. Still, John would know how to handle matters when once they were put up to him. She didn’t mind what happened so long as he would be happy. And, after all, it was fine to have a brother who didn’t run after girls and who gave his sister good times. Thus did Ruth reconcile herself to the inevitable, like the practical philosopher she was.

The summer found the Mortons at Newport. John would come up for week-ends from the city and suffer the boredom of the clubs. The men he met appealed to him not at all; and a man can be no more alone than when with his fellow-men if he declines to live their lives. If, occasionally, he drifted with the rest, he did not drift far. His good sense, his self-esteem and inborn dignity of character prevented him from losing himself in vulgar pleasures or in seeking a cheap notoriety.

The understanding he arrived at with his mother had this one good effect—it recalled him to his better self. He gave up his horses and avoided the “set” he had come to know during his temporary lapse. He went back to his business doubly determined to give it his earnest thought and energies, and the dollars kept rolling in. He became a recognized power in the world of finance and people began to say of him that “he beats the old man.”

But in the quiet of his own room, he would sit of an evening alone engaged in what he smilingly said to himself were “Hellenic studies.” HelÈne’s photograph—the same he had received from Count Rondell’s hand on that memorable interview on the steamer—was never moved from his study table. The sweet face looked out at him with all the power of its insistent beauty. Why had he not carried her off at Vienna and married her there and then? What a fool he had been!

Now, all he could do was to wait. She had said in her letter that she would write him again a year hence. He read the letter again. No; it said, “when autumn comes.” Ah, well—autumn was not so far off. But oh, if he could but see her for just one minute! He wondered if there was any truth in his friend, Professor Guermot’s theory about thought transference. If only he could send her a telepathic message to say to her: “HelÈne, HelÈne, I love you. I am waiting for you, dearest, with my heart in my hand. Time is flying, and I want you—I want you.” Surely, she was somewhere in this wide world where his impassioned thoughts might reach her! Was she happy? Was she well? Perhaps she was in distress and in need! Damn money! Damn fame! If it hadn’t been for that disgusting newspaper everything would have been so different. Fate must have loaded the dice against him, as though she had said to him: “Heads I win, tails you lose.”