The first thing I did was to ascertain the name of the gentleman occupying the house I have specified. It was that of one of our wealthiest and most respectable bankers, a name as well known in the city—as your own for instance. This was somewhat disconcerting, but with a dogged resolution somewhat foreign to my natural disposition, I persevered in my investigations, and learning in the next breath that the gentleman alluded to was a widower with an only child, a young daughter of about sixteen or so, recovered my assurance, though not my equanimity. Seeking out my friend Farrar, who as you know is a walking gazette of New York society, I broached the subject of Mr. —excuse me if I do not mention his name; allow me to say, Preston’s domestic affairs, and learned that Miss Preston, “A naive little piece for so great an heiress,” I remember Farrar called her, had left town within a day or two for a visit to some friends in Baltimore. “I happen to know,” said he with that careless sweep of his hand at which you have so often laughed, “because my friend Miss Forsyth met her at the depot. She was intending to be gone—two weeks, I think she said. Do you know her?”
That last question sprung upon me unawares, and I am afraid I blushed. “No,” I returned, “I have not that honor but an acquaintance of mine has—well—has met her and—”
“I see, I see,” broke in Farrar with his most disagreeable smile. Then with a short laugh, meant to act as a warning, I suppose, added as he walked off, “I hope your friend is in fair circumstances and not connected with the fine arts. Music is Mr. Preston’s detestation, while Miss Preston though too young to be much sought after yet, will in two years’ time have the pick of the city at her command.”