of work. As she stood there, balancing her impulses, the
esoteric Trimmle returned with the announcement of luncheon, and
Mary, thus impelled, opened the door and went into the library.

Boyne was not at his desk, and she peered about her, expecting to
discover him at the book-shelves, somewhere down the length of
the room; but her call brought no response, and gradually it
became clear to her that he was not in the library.

She turned back to the parlor-maid.

"Mr. Boyne must be up-stairs. Please tell him that luncheon is
ready."

The parlor-maid appeared to hesitate between the obvious duty of
obeying orders and an equally obvious conviction of the
foolishness of the injunction laid upon her. The struggle
resulted in her saying doubtfully, "If you please, Madam, Mr.
Boyne's not up-stairs."

"Not in his room? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Madam."

Mary consulted the clock. "Where is he, then?"

"He's gone out," Trimmle announced, with the superior air of one
who has respectfully waited for the question that a well-ordered
mind would have first propounded.