Part 13 (2/2)

she exclaimed. ”What would that stately old grandfather of yours have to say if he knew it?”

Roberta's eyes twinkled. ”Just about the same thing that he would say about aircraft or radio. Impossible!”

The recounting of their recent experiences had occupied so much time that, as its conclusion was reached, so too was Bobs' destination.

”I'll get out with you, if you don't mind,” Kathryn said, ”for, since Miss Finefeather is ill, I may at least be able to give her some advice that will help her.”

Roberta glanced gratefully at her friend. ”I had hoped that you would want to come with me,” she said, ”but I did not like to ask, knowing that your own mission might be imperative.”

”No, it is not.” Then, having dismissed the taxi driver. Kathryn said: ”I know this building. It is where a large number of poor struggling artists have rooms. On each floor there is one community kitchen.”

A janitor appeared from the bas.e.m.e.nt at their ring. She said that Miss Finefeather lived on the very top floor and that the young ladies might go right up, and she did hope that they would be on time.

”On time for what?” Kathryn paused to inquire. The woman gave an indifferent shrug.

”Oh,” she informed them, ”ever so often one of the artists gets discouraged, and then she happens to remember that the river isn't so very far away. Also they just go to sleep sometimes.” Another shrug, and, with the added remark that she didn't blame them much, the woman returned to her dreary home.

Bobs shuddered. What if they were too late? Poor Miss Finefeather, if she were really Winnie Waring-Winston, as Roberta so hoped, would not need be discouraged when she had a fine home and a mother whose only interest in life was to find her.

They were half-way up the long, steep flight of stairs leading to the top floor when Bobs paused and looked back at her friend, as she said: ”I'm almost afraid that this girl cannot be the one I am seeking. Winnie could not be discouraged in only three days.”

”I thought that at once,” Kathryn replied, ”but she is someone in trouble, and so I must go to her and see if I can help.”

In silence they continued to climb to the top floor, which was divided into four small rooms. Three of the doors were locked, but the fourth opened at their touch, revealing a room so dark that, at first, they could only see the form of the bed, and were relieved to note that someone was lying upon it. But at their entrance there was no movement from the silent figure.

”Maybe--after all--we came too late,” Bobs said softly, and how her heart ached for the poor girl lying there, and she wondered who it might be.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE LOST IS FOUND

Kathryn crossed to the one window and drew up the shade. It was late afternoon and almost dusk on that north side of the house. The dim light revealed on the pillow a face so still and white that Bobs was sure only death could make it so. For one long moment she gazed before she recognized the girl lying on the bed, and no wonder, for great was the change in her.

”Gwen! It's our own Sister Gwen!” she cried as one who can scarcely believe the evidence of her senses.

Down by the bedside Roberta knelt and took one of the lifeless white hands in her own. ”Oh, Gwen,” she implored, ”why did you do it? You thought we didn't want you. You believed that in all the world there was no one who loved you, no home in which you were welcome. Oh, how selfish I've been! Gwen, forgive me, Sister. I should have tried to help you. I was the one really who was selfish, for I wanted adventure. I didn't try to think what it would mean to you; but O, I will, I will, Gwen, if only you will live. Why don't you open your eyes, Gwen?”

Then, as there was no response from the apparently lifeless form on the bed, Bobs looked up at her friend as she implored: ”Kathryn, why doesn't Gwen open her eyes? Are we too late? O, don't say that we are. It will kill Glow. She thinks that it is her fault that Gwen left. She feels that she turned one of Mother's own daughters out of our home.”

Kathryn, who had been hunting about the room as though in search of something, as indeed she had been, gave an exclamation of relief and, going to Bobs, she held out a small vial. ”Gwen isn't dead,” she said.

”It wasn't poison that she took. Just a heavy dose of sleeping powder.

However, she will probably continue in this deathlike sleep for hours, and yet she may soon recover. We have no time to delay. I will remain here while you go to the corner drug store and telephone to my hospital for an ambulance. Just say that it is for Miss De Laney and they will respond at once. While she is unable to protest, we will take her to your home.”

Bobs had arisen, but lovingly she stooped and kissed the white face that was so unlike the proud, beautiful one she had last seen on that never-to-be-forgotten day when they had planned leaving their Long Island home.

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