personally notify Louise Merrick of the proposed trip; so he took a
cross-town line and arrived at the Merrick's home at nine o'clock.

Mrs. Merrick was in a morning wrapper, sipping her coffee in an upper
room. But she could not deny herself to Uncle John, her dead husband's
brother and her only daughter's benefactor (which meant indirectly her
own benefactor), so she ordered the maid to show him up at once.

"Louise is still sweetly sleeping," she said, "and won't waken for hours
yet."

"Is anything wrong with her?" he asked, anxiously.

"Oh, dear, no! but everyone does not get up with the milkman, as you do,
John; and the dear child was at the opera last night, which made her
late in getting home."

"Doesn't the opera let out before midnight, the same as the theatres?"
he asked.

"I believe so; but there is the supper, afterward, you know."

"Ah, yes," he returned, thoughtfully. "I've always noticed that the
opera makes folks desperately hungry, for they flock to the restaurants
as soon as they can get away. Singular, isn't it?"

"Why, I never thought of it in that light."

"But Louise is well?"