"Not come at all? But I need him! Besides, he's my---- I expect him
to go and find my brother. And the trunk checks are all in his
pocket--wait!--no they're not, they're in my suitcase after all."

"You're in luck," he assured her blandly, "for Searle has doubtless
lost all his pockets."

"Lost his pockets?" she echoed. "Perhaps you mean the convicts took
them--took his clothing--everything he had."

"Everything except his pleasant manner," Van agreed. "They have plenty
of that of their own."

She was lost for a moment in reflection.

"Poor Searle! Poor Mr. Bostwick!"

Van drank the last of his coffee.

"Was Searle the only man you knew in all New York?"

She colored. "Certainly not. Of course not. Why do you ask such a
question?"

"I was trying to understand the situation, but I give it up." He
looked in her eyes with mock gravity, and she colored.

She understood precisely what he meant--the situation between herself
and Bostwick, to whom, she feared, she had half confessed herself