intimate at our house."

"Did he take wine freely?"

An indignant denial leaped to Mr. Birtwell's tongue, but the words
died unspoken, for the image of Archie, with flushed face and eyes
too bright for sober health, holding in his hand a glass of
sparkling champagne, came vividly before him.

"Not more freely than other young men," he replied. "Why do you
ask?"

"There are two theories of his absence," said the policeman. "One is
that he has been set upon in the street, robbed and murdered, and
the other that, stupefied and bewildered by drink, he lost himself
in the storm, and lies somewhere frozen to death and hidden under
the snow."

A cry of pain broke from the lips of Mrs. Birtwell, and she came
hurrying down stairs. Too well did she remember the condition of
Archie when she last saw him--Archie, the only son of her oldest and
dearest friend, the friend she had known and loved since girlhood.
He was not fit to go out alone in that cold and stormy night; and a
guilty sense of responsibility smote upon her heart and set aside
all excuses.

"What about his mother?" she asked, anxiously. "How is she bearing
this dreadful suspense?"

"I can't just say, ma'am," was answered, "but I think they've had