Ingram was, or even one single fact about her.

            From that point to supposing that she could be Kate Spain was obviously a long way. She might be—well, let’s say almost anything; but not a woman accused of murder, and acquitted only because the circumstantial evidence was insufficient to hang her. I dismissed the grotesque supposition at once; there were problems enough to keep me awake without that.

            When I said that I knew nothing of Mrs. Ingram I was mistaken. I knew one fact about her; that she could put up with Cassie Wilpert. It was only a clue, but I had felt from the first that it was a vital one. What conceivable interest or obligation could make a woman like Mrs. Ingram endure such an intimacy? If I knew that, I should know all I cared to know about her; not only about her outward circumstances but her inmost self.

            Hitherto, in indulging my feeling for her, I had been disposed to slip past the awkward obstacle of Cassie Wilpert; but now I was resolved to face it. I meant to ask Kate Ingram to marry me. If she refused, her private affairs were obviously no business of mine; but if she accepted I meant to have the Wilpert question out with her at once.

            It seemed a long time before daylight came; and then there were more hours to be passed before I could reasonably present myself to Mrs. Ingram. But at nine I sent a line to ask when she would see me; and a few minutes later my note was returned to me by the floor-waiter.

            “But this isn’t an answer; it’s my own note,” I exclaimed.

            Yes; it was my own note. He had brought it back because the lady had already left the hotel.

            “Left? Gone out, you mean?”

            “No; left with all her luggage. The two ladies went an hour ago.”

            In a few minutes I was dressed and had hurried down to the concierges. It was a mistake, I was sure; of course Mrs. Ingram had not left. The floor-waiter, whom I had long since classed as an idiot, had simply gone to the wrong door. But no; the concierges shook his head. It was not a mistake. Mrs. Ingram and Miss Wilpert had gone away suddenly that morning by motor. The chauffeur’s orders were to take them to Italy; to Baveno or Stresa, he thought; but he wasn’t sure, and the ladies had left no address. The hotel servants said they had been up all night packing. The heavy luggage was to be sent to Milan; the concierges had orders to direct it to the station. That was all the information he could give—and I thought he looked at me queerly as he gave it.

              

 

 V.
 
 

            I did not see Jimmy Shreve again before leaving Mont Soleil that day; indeed I exercised all my ingenuity in keeping out of his way. If I were to ask any further explanations, it was of Mrs. Ingram that I meant to ask them. Either she was Kate Spain, or she was not; and either way, she was the woman to whom I had declared my love. I should have thought nothing of Shreve’s insinuations if I had not recalled Mrs. Ingram’s start when she first saw him. She herself had owned that she had taken him for some one she knew; but even this would not have meant much if she and her companion had not disappeared from the hotel a few hours later, without leaving a message for me, or an address with the hall-porter.

            I did not for a moment suppose that this disappearance was connected with my talk of the previous evening with Mrs.