What was the explanation? Kitty wondered, much perplexed.

Her father had left Vancouver and had gone to New York—so she gathered from the cablegram. And as he had not been to see her she concluded that he could not be in England, and that meant in the circumstances that he had not sailed from New York on the 21st of July as he had intended. Gilbert had suggested to her that her father had been unexpectedly detained, and at first, as this seemed a probable solution of the problem, she was inclined to think this was what had occurred.

But, as she reflected further, it did not seem so likely. For supposing he had been forced to delay his journey for a whole week, and had exchanged his berth on the St. Louis for one on the boat of the same line sailing a week later, that is, on the 28th, there would still have been plenty of time for him to have arrived in England and to have seen her, as he would have reached Southampton by the 3rd of August, or by the 4th at latest. And it was now the 9th!

As Kitty tried to puzzle the matter out, her fears, vague, but none the less distressing, were greatly increased, and she began to suspect that something, she knew not what, had happened to her father.

Gilbert, now as anxious as Kitty was, was at Surbiton in the evening to hear what news she had received from Vancouver, and he was as much bewildered as she by the cablegram from Wallace, Morris Thornton's agent. All he could do was to remind her, as he had done before, that the delay in her father's coming, as well as his silence, might all be part of his scheme to "surprise" her. But Kitty replied that this made her father out as unkind in the extreme; she was sure he would never willingly put such a strain upon her affection.

"I can't make it out at all," she said, wrinkling her pretty brows. "It seems very singular that he does not write."

Then an idea struck her. It was that there might be, on a careful re-reading of the letter she had received from her father, in which he had said he was returning to England, some words which would afford a clue.

"I shall look at his letter again," she said to Gilbert, and went up to her room to fetch it.

"He writes," remarked the girl, when she had brought it down, "quite positively 'I will come in a few days after you receive this.' 'A few days,' he says. If he had sailed on the 21st of July and came here to-morrow—why, it would be nearly three weeks, and you can't call that a few days."

"No," assented Gilbert; "but, Kitty, it's hardly three weeks. If he had sailed on the 21st he would have been here about the 28th or the 29th. You see what's left is more like ten days than three weeks. But what is the date of your father's letter?"

"July 11th."

"And when did you get it, dear?"

"Oh, Gilbert, don't you know, don't you remember?" asked Kitty, with some reproach in her voice. "Surely, you cannot have forgotten that I got it on the very day you told me that you loved me!"

"Ah, sweetheart," quickly replied Gilbert, taking her hand and pressing it tenderly, "I've been so happy that I have lost all count of time—I forget everything but you, my darling!"

"A pretty speech," exclaimed Kitty, smiling upon him while her hand returned the pressure of his, "and I suppose I must forgive you, Gilbert. But about this letter of father's. Well, it came just sixteen days ago to-day. Now, sixteen days are not exactly a few days, are they?" she asked, sticking to her point.

"It was on the 24th that his letter came," said Gilbert.

"So you have remembered the date, sir?" cried Kitty.

"I had not really forgotten, dear; but thinking about your father had, for the moment, put it out of mind."

"Oh, yes, I know, Gilbert," she said, a little absently.

He devoured her with eyes of love, but he noticed that her thoughts were not with him. They had reverted to her father.

"I think I see how it all fits in," she said, after a long pause, "for his sailing on the 21st. He wrote me on the 11th; that gave him ten days to wind up his business in Vancouver, so far as he could wind it up, and to get to New York in—five days in Vancouver, and five days for the journey to New York. If he had sailed on the 21st, as he said to his agent he would, he would have been here on the 28th or 29th, that is, in three or four days after his letter. Now three, four, or even let us say five days, would be a few days—just as he says in his letter. I can see he had planned it all out, so as to fit everything in. Don't you see that, Gilbert?"

"It certainly looks like it, dear."

"Yes, it does. It is very strange that he did not carry out his intention. I cannot understand it. There is some mystery about it I cannot fathom."

"It seems singular," observed Gilbert; "but I dare say that, if we knew all the circumstances, there would be a perfectly natural explanation, sweetheart. Pray do not give way, my darling," he besought her, but his own manner was not reassuring.

"I cannot help being anxious," replied Kitty. Then she looked again at the cablegram from Wallace, and said, "The agent wires, 'Your father sailed from New York by St. Louis on 21st.' That is quite definite, is it not? And he adds, 'No further advices.' Does that mean that father had advised Mr. Wallace that he had sailed? Oh, Gilbert, I am afraid, I am afraid! We imagine that the agent knew only of father's intention—an intention, we suppose, he was prevented from carrying out. But think what it means if we are wrong in imagining this altogether! Suppose that father did sail on the 21st! Gilbert, I am afraid," said Kitty, in a low tone; "I am afraid," she repeated, and the girl's voice suddenly fell into a whisper. She shivered slightly, and the tears stood in her eyes as she clung to her lover.

Gilbert took her in his arms, soothed and caressed her. In the course of their conversation he had tried to put the best construction on Morris Thornton's non-appearance, but at heart he felt, like Kitty, that there was good ground for misgiving. And to have told the girl what he knew, but she did not know, of the serious condition of her father, would be only to add to her trouble. As for himself, that knowledge made him appreciate the gravity of the matter even more than she did. He resolved, therefore, to set inquiries on foot at once, and furthermore to set to work vigorously himself to probe the thing to the bottom.

Next morning, accordingly, he went to the office of the American Line in London—the line of steamships to which the St. Louis belonged—and asked the clerk who waited on him for a list of the passengers who had sailed from New York by that vessel, on July 21st.

The list was handed to him immediately. A cursory glance showed him that the name of Morris Thornton was on it.

Dumfounded, he stared at the list, saying nothing. His surprise was so marked that the clerk could not help noticing it, and was surprised in his turn.

"It does not mean," said Gilbert at length, "at least, always, I suppose, that because an individual's name is on the steamer list he must necessarily have sailed, does it? I mean that he might be detained at the last moment."

"That, of course, is possible," replied the clerk. "The list is printed some little while before the ship sails. But I can tell you if there was any one on the list who in the end did not sail, if that is what you wish to know."

"That is very kind of you," said Gilbert, but he paused, reflecting that a question of this kind was a somewhat delicate one. And he was aware that the clerk was eyeing him curiously, almost suspiciously.

"Perhaps," said the clerk, "it would be simpler and better if you told me about whom you desire to ask. Is there any name on the list in which you are particularly interested?"

Gilbert noticed that the clerk was studying his face with marked intentness, and he wondered why; he understood later.

"I see on the list," said Gilbert at length, "the name of Mr. Morris Thornton."

"Mr. Morris Thornton!" exclaimed the clerk, whose tone was such as showed there was something out of the common attaching to the name.

"Yes, Mr. Thornton," Gilbert went on. "Can you tell me if he sailed by the St. Louis on the 21st?"

"Are you a friend of Mr. Thornton's?" inquired the clerk, in an eager voice.

"In a sense, yes," replied Gilbert. "But you have not answered my question."

"In a sense," said the clerk, repeating Gilbert's first words; then he continued, "I have a most special reason for asking if you are a friend of his. What do you mean, sir, by saying that you are a friend of his in a sense?"

"Well, I am engaged to his daughter. She expected to see her father some days ago, but he has not arrived. She knew he intended sailing from New York on the 21st, though she only knew of it yesterday. She became alarmed on not seeing him or hearing from him, and she cabled to his agent in Vancouver, and in that way learned that her father was to have sailed on the 21st. She asked me to make inquiries. I shall be glad if you can help me. Can you tell me if Mr. Thornton sailed on the St. Louis or not?"

"Mr. Thornton," answered the clerk, in a queer, half-frightened voice, "did sail by the St. Louis!"

"What! Are you sure of that?"

"Absolutely."

Gilbert had a staggering sense that he was on the edge of some extraordinary affair, and he gazed earnestly at the clerk, who looked at him with corresponding intentness.

"Have you anything more to tell me?" asked Gilbert.

"I think it would be better if you spoke to the manager," said the clerk. "Would you mind coming in to see him?"

"Not at all; but why?"

"Well, you are not the only one who has been making inquiries about Mr. Thornton—I may tell you that; but, please come into the manager's room."

Gilbert saw the manager, and explained his errand.

"I am afraid," said the manager, speaking in an impressive voice, "that something may have happened to Mr. Thornton; indeed, I have very little doubt of it."

"Why?"

"Mr. Thornton did sail from New York as he intended; not only so, he landed at Southampton in due course, and came on to London on the 29th of last month. On that day he took a room at the Law Courts Hotel in Holborn. These are the facts."

"How do you know he went to the Law Courts Hotel, may I ask?"

"I have it from the hotel people themselves, and why they told me of it you will presently understand. It appears that Mr. Thornton was a good deal of an invalid; at any rate, shortly after he got to his hotel he was taken very seriously ill—he had a violent heart-attack of the most alarming character. He fell down in the hall of the hotel and became unconscious. He was immediately conveyed to his bed and a doctor was summoned."

"Ah," said Gilbert, interrupting him, "I knew that he had a weak heart. But, pardon me, pray continue."

"Mr. Thornton was successfully treated by the doctor, and after some hours recovered, but he remained in bed for the rest of that day and most of the next."

"He got better," said Gilbert, beginning to breathe more freely. "That is good news."

"Oh, but wait," said the manager. "I have not finished yet. He stopped in bed at his hotel most of the next day, as I have already told you—that was the 30th, you will remember. He improved so much that he told the attendant who had been detailed to look after his comfort, that he felt quite equal to getting up, and though the attendant remonstrated with him he persisted and did get up. You follow me, Mr. Eversleigh?"

"Perfectly," replied Gilbert, who saw that something very unusual was coming, and was most eager to hear the end of the story.

"Mr. Thornton had dinner at the table d'hÔte—he was as well as that, you understand. After dinner he sat for quite a time chatting with two or three of the other guests, and, rather late in the evening, he announced his intention of going out for a short stroll; he said the fresh air would do him good. And he did go out."

The manager paused, and looked at Gilbert significantly.

"He went out," he resumed, "but he has never returned."