Six or seven members of the club abruptly discovered in themselves an unsuspected latent passion for the histrionic art.  In squads of two or three they stormed successively all the theatres in town—­Booth’s, Wallack’s, Daly’s Fifth Avenue (not burned down then), and the Grand Opera House.  Even the shabby homes of the drama over in the Bowery, where the Germanic Thespis has not taken out his naturalization papers, underwent rigid exploration.  But no clew was found to Van Twiller’s mysterious attachment.  The opera bouffe, which promised the widest field for investigation, produced absolutely nothing, not even a crop of suspicions.  One night, after several weeks of this, Delaney and I fancied that we caught sight of Van Twiller in the private box of an uptown theatre, where some thrilling trapeze performance was going on, which we did not care to sit through; but we concluded afterward that it was only somebody who looked like him.  Delaney, by the way, was unusually active in this search.  I dare say he never quite forgave Van Twiller for calling him Muslin Delaney.  Ned is fond of ladies’ society, and that’s a fact.

The Cimmerian darkness which surrounded Van Twiller’s inamorata left us free to indulge in the wildest conjectures.  Whether she was black-tressed Melpomene, with bowl and dagger, or Thalia, with the fair hair and the laughing face, was only to be guessed at.  It was popularly conceded, however, that Van Twiller was on the point of forming a dreadful mesalliance.

Up to this period he had visited the club regularly.  Suddenly he ceased to appear.  He was not to be seen on Fifth Avenue, or in the Central Park, or at the houses he generally frequented.  His chambers—­and mighty comfortable chambers they were—­on Thirty-fourth Street were deserted.  He had dropped out of the world, shot like a bright particular star from his orbit in the heaven of the best society.

The following conversation took place one night in the smoking-room: 

“Where’s Van Twiller?”

“Who’s seen Van Twiller?

“What has become of Van Twiller?”

Delaney picked up the “Evening Post,” and read—­with a solemnity that betrayed young Firkins into exclaiming, “By Jove, now!—­”

“Married, on the 10th instant, by the Rev. Friar Laurence, at the residence of the bride’s uncle, Montague Capulet, Esq., Miss Adrienne Le Couvreur to Mr. Ralph Van Twiller, both of this city.  No cards.”

“Free List suspended,” murmured De Peyster.

“It strikes me,” said Frank Livingstone, who had been ruffling the leaves of a magazine at the other end of the table, “that you fellows are in a great fever about Van Twiller.”

“So we are.”

“Well, he has simply gone out of town.”

“Where?”

“Up to the old homestead on the Hudson.”

“It’s an odd time of year for a fellow to go into the country.”

“He has gone to visit his mother,” said Livingstone.