It ran thus: R.Storms, Washington, D.C.
What's the matter?
Where is your letter to-night?
_Daily Tory_.
It was like a cupful of cold water, souse! in Richard's face; it brought him back to earth.

In his successful bright estate of love he had forgotten about that letter.

There was no help for it; Richard got pen and blank, and wired: _Daily Tory_, New York City.
Mr.Storms is ill; no letter to-night.
L.Gwynn.
When this was thirty minutes on its way, Richard had a further lucid interval.

With the power of prophecy upon him, he dispatched the following: _Daily Tory_, New York City.
Mr.Storms will be ill a week.
L.Gwynn.
It gave Richard a pang to put aside those engaging letters, even for a week.

Under the circumstances, however, and with a promise to see Dorothy the next day at four, and a purpose to see her every day at four if she permitted him, he deemed it prudent to send the second message.
Besides, should his reason return before the week's end, he could recover from that illness and take up the letters again.
Being something sobered now, Richard lighted a cigar and strolled off through a fall of snow that had set in, thinking on Dorothy.