Part 11 (1/2)

”Just a moment, Mr. Hargreave,” he called ironically; ”just a moment!”

The man he addressed as Hargreave turned with lightning rapidity and struck. The blow caught Braine above the ear, knocking him flat. When he regained his feet the rumble of a motor told him the rest of the story.

By the dim light of her bedroom candle Florence read the note which had found entrance so strangely and mysteriously into her room. Her father! He lived, he needed her! Alive, but in dread peril, and only she could save him! She longed to fly to him at once, then and there.

How could she wait till to-morrow night at eight? Immediately she began to plan how to circ.u.mvent the watchful Jones and the careful Susan. Her father! She slept no more that night.

”My Darling Daughter: I must see you. Come at eight o'clock to-morrow night to 78 Grove Street, third floor. Confide in no one, or you seal my death warrant.

”Your unhappy ”FATHER.”

What child would refuse to obey a summons like this?

A light tap on the door startled her.

”Is anything the matter?” asked the mild voice of Jones.

”No. I got up to get a drink of water.”

She heard his footsteps die away down the corridor. She thrust the letter into the pocket of her dress, which lay neatly folded on the chair at the foot of the bed, then climbed back into the bed itself.

She must not tell even Mr. Norton.

Was the child spinning a romance over the first young man she had ever met? In her heart of hearts the girl did not know.

Her father!

It was all so terribly and tragically simple, to match a woman's mind against that of a child. Both Norton and the sober Jones had explicitly warned her never to go anywhere, receive telephone calls or letters, without first consulting one or the other of them. And now she had planned to deceive them, with all the cunning of her s.e.x.

The next morning at breakfast there was nothing unusual either in her appearance or manners. Under the shrewd scrutiny of Jones she was just her every-day self, a fine bit of acting for one who had yet to see the stage. But it is born in woman to act, as it is born in man to fight, and Florence was no exception to the rule.

She was going to save her father.

She read with Susan, played the piano, sewed a little, laughed, hummed and did a thousand and one things young girls do when they have the deception of their elders in view.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SHE READ WITH SUSAN...]

All day long Jones went about like an old hound with his nose to the wind. There was something in the air, but he could not tell what it was. Somehow or other, no matter which room Florence went into, there was Jones within earshot. And she dared not show the least impatience or restiveness. It was a large order for so young a girl, but she filled it.

She rather expected that the reporter would appear some time during the afternoon; and sure enough he did. He could no more resist the desire to see and talk to her than he could resist breathing. There was no use denying it; the world had suddenly turned at a new angle, presenting a new face, a roseate vision. It rather subdued his easy banter.

”What news?” she asked.

”None,” rather despondingly. ”I'm sorry. I had hoped by this time to get somewhere. But it happens that I can't get any farther than this house.”

She did not ask him what he meant by that.

”Shall I play something for you?” she said.

”Please.”