A young man, with the kisses of his mother sweet on his pure lips,
had left her for an evening's social enjoyment at the house of one
of her closest and dearest friends, and she never looked upon his
face again. He had entered the house of that friend with a clear
head and steady nerves, and he had gone out at midnight bewildered
with the wine that had been poured without stint to her hundred
guests, young and old. How it had fared with him the reader knows
too well.
CHAPTER III.
"HEAVENS and earth! Why doesn't some one go to the door?" exclaimed
Mr. Spencer Birtwell, rousing himself from a heavy sleep as the bell
was rung for the third time, and now with four or five vigorous and
rapid jerks, each of which caused the handle of the bell to strike
with the noise of a hammer.
The gray dawn was just breaking.
"There it is again! Good heavens! What does it mean?" and Mr.
Birtwell, now fairly awake, started up in bed and sat listening.
Scarcely a moment intervened before the bell was pulled again, and
this time continuously for a dozen times. Springing from the bed,
Mr. Birtwell threw open a window, and looking out, saw two policemen
at the door.
"What's wanted?" he called down to them.
"Was there a young man here last night named Voss?" inquired one of
the men.
"What about him?" asked Mr. Birtwell.
"He hasn't been home, and his friends are alarmed.
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