"Not more freely than other young men," he replied. "Why do you
ask?"
"There are two theories of his absence," said the policeman. "One is
that he has been set upon in the street, robbed and murdered, and
the other that, stupefied and bewildered by drink, he lost himself
in the storm, and lies somewhere frozen to death and hidden under
the snow."
A cry of pain broke from the lips of Mrs. Birtwell, and she came
hurrying down stairs. Too well did she remember the condition of
Archie when she last saw him--Archie, the only son of her oldest and
dearest friend, the friend she had known and loved since girlhood.
He was not fit to go out alone in that cold and stormy night; and a
guilty sense of responsibility smote upon her heart and set aside
all excuses.
"What about his mother?" she asked, anxiously. "How is she bearing
this dreadful suspense?"
"I can't just say, ma'am," was answered, "but I think they've had
the doctor with her all night--that is, all the last part of the
night. She's lying in a faint, I believe."
"Oh, it will kill her! Poor Frances! Poor Frances!" wailed out Mrs.
Birtwell, wringing her hands and beginning to cry bitterly.
"The police have been on the lookout for the last two or three
hours, but can't find any trace of him," said the officer.
"Oh, he'll turn up all right," broke in Mr. Birtwell, with a
confident tone. "It's only a scare. Gone home with some young
friend, as like as not.
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