"A gentleman?"
"Undoubtedly."
"One you speak to?"
"Oh, yes; I talk to him, but the conversation is very one-sided."
I could not help smiling at the grimace with which Dick accompanied this remark. "Which same goes to prove," he went on, "that he is the real thing."
Laughing outright this time, I left him, and in a few minutes sauntered from the room.
As I mingled again with the crowd on Broadway, I found myself wondering immensely over this slight experience. That this unknown gentleman from London, who went everywhere except into private houses, could be in any way connected with the affair I had so at heart, seemed not only improbable but absurd; and for the first time I felt tempted to doubt the sagacity of Mr. Gryce in recommending him to my attention.
The next day I repeated the experiment, but with no greater success than before. Mr. Clavering came into the room, but, seeing me, did not remain. I began to realize it was no easy matter to make his acquaintance. To atone for my disappointment, I called on Mary Leavenworth in the evening. She received me with almost a sister-like familiarity.
"Ah," she cried, after introducing me to an elderly lady at her side,—some connection of the family, I believe, who had come to remain with her for a while,—"you are here to tell me Hannah is found; is it not so?"
I shook my head, sorry to disappoint her. "No," said I; "not yet."
"But Mr. Gryce was here to-day, and he told me he
