together and conveyed no meaning to him. It was becoming plain that he
was to have no communication with the Denhams that night unless he
assumed the initiative. He pencilled a line on the reverse of a visiting
card and sent it up to Mrs. Denham's parlor. The servant returned with
the card on his waiter. The ladies had retired. Then Lynde took himself
off to bed disconsolately.

It was nearly nine o'clock when he awoke the following morning. The
storm had not lifted; the colorless clouds were still letting down a
fine, vapory rain that blurred everything. As soon as he had
breakfasted, Lynde went to Mrs. Denham's rooms. She answered his knock
in person and invited him by a silent gesture to enter the parlor. He
saw by the drawn expression of her countenance that she had not slept.

"Ruth is ill," she said in a low voice, replying to Lynde's inquiry.

"You do not mean very ill?"

"I fear so. She has passed a dreadful night. I have had a doctor."

"Is it as serious as that? What does he say?"

"He says it is a severe cold, with symptoms of pneumonia; but I do not
think he knows," returned Mrs. Denham despairingly. "I must despatch a
courier to my husband; our old family physician is now with him at
Paris. I have just received a letter, and they are not coming this week!
They must come at once. I do not know how to telegraph them, as they are
about to change their hotel. Besides, I believe a telegram cannot be
sent from here; the nearest office is at Geneva. I must send some
messenger who will have intelligence enough to find Mr. Denham wherever