to the man who had talked to her the night before. She wondered if
he were better. His thin blanched face, his eyes gleaming uncomfortably
in smudges, recurred to her. Perhaps he'd be down by the cigar-stand
again. She went, presently, to see, but the row of chairs was empty.

However, the neglected thick brown-covered magazine was still on the
ledge by which he had been sitting. There was a name on it, and while,
ordinarily, she couldn't read handwriting, this was so clear and
regular, but minutely small, that she was able to spell it out--Howard
Welles.

It disappointed her not to find him; at lunch she observed nearly
every one present, but still he was lost. He wasn't listening to the
music after dinner, nor below. A deep sense of disappointment grew
within her. Linda wanted to see him, hear him talk; at times a sharp
hurt in the shoulder he had grasped brought him back vividly. The
next day it was the same, and finally, diffidently, she approached
the hotel desk. A clerk she knew, Mr. Fiske, was rapidly sorting
mail, and she waited politely until he had finished.

"Well?" he asked.

"I found this down-stairs," she said, giving him the magazine.
"Perhaps he'll want it." Mr. Fiske looked at the written name, and
then glanced sharply at her. "No," he told her brusquely, "he won't
want it." He turned away with the magazine and left Linda standing
irresolutely. She wanted to ask if Mr. Welles were still at the
Boscombe; if the latter didn't want the magazine she'd love to have
it, Linda couldn't tell why. But the clerk went into the treasurer's
office and she was forced to move away.