I scanned every hotel-book in vain.  I walked the streets of the city, and all the long Sunday I haunted one or two churches that my memory suggested to me were among the probabilities for that day.  They were either not in the city or most securely hid.

And all this time there was a letter in the New York post-office waiting for me.  I found it at my room when I went back to it on Monday noon.

It ran as follows: 

                                            “WESTMINSTER HOTEL. 
    “Very sorry not to see you—­Aunt Sloman especially sorry; but
    she has set her heart on going to Philadelphia to-night.  We
    shall stay at a private house, a quiet boarding-house; for
    aunt goes to consult Dr. R——­ there, and wishes to be very
    retired.  I shall not give you our address:  as you sail so
    soon, it would not be worth while to come over.  I will write
    you on the other side.  B.S.”

Where’s a Philadelphia directory?  Where is this Dr. R——?  I find him, sure enough—­such a number Walnut street.  Time is precious—­Monday noon!

“I’ll transfer my berth to the Saturday steamer:  that will do as well.  Can’t help it if they do scold at the office.”

To drive to the Cunard company’s office and make the transfer took some little time, but was not this my wedding holiday?  I sighed as I again took my seat in the car at Jersey City.  On this golden Monday afternoon I should have been slowly coming down the Housatonic Valley, with my dear little wife beside me.  Instead, the unfamiliar train, and the fat man at my side reading a campaign newspaper, and shaking his huge sides over some broad burlesque.

The celebrated surgeon, Dr. R——­, was not at home in answer to my ring on Monday evening.

“How soon will he be in?  I will wait.”

“He can see no patients to-night sir,” said the man; “and he may not be home until midnight.”

“But I am an impatient,” I might have urged, when a carriage dashed up to the door.  A slight little man descended, and came slowly up the steps.

“Dr. R——?” I said inquiringly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Just one minute, doctor, if you please.  I only want to get an address from you.”

He scanned me from head to foot:  “Walk into my office, young man.”

I might have wondered at the brusqueness of his manner had I not caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the mantelshelf.  Dusty and worn, and with a keen look of anxiety showing out of every feature, I should scarcely have recognized myself.

I explained as collectedly as possible that I wanted the address of one of his patients, a dear old friend of mine, whom I had missed as she passed through New York, and that, as I was about to sail for Europe in a few days, I had rushed over to bid her good-bye.  “Mrs. Antoinette Sloman, it is, doctor.”