anything--just went out to the cab that was waiting. Then about a half
hour later, Mary, her maid, came in with the boxes. I hope there's
nothing wrong, sir?"

Gard listened, his heart tightening with apprehension. "Call White
Plains, 56," he ordered sharply. "Tell Miss Dorothy to come at once and
then send for me, quick, now!" he commanded; and as the wondering flunky
turned toward the telephone, he sprang up the stairs, threw open the
library door and entered. The electric lights were blazing in the heat
and silence of the closed room. The odor of violets hung reminiscent in
the stale air. The panel by the mantelpiece was thrust back, and the
door of the safe, so uselessly concealed, hung open, revealing the empty
shelves within and the deep shadow of the inner compartment. He saw it
all in a flash of understanding; the frantic woman's rush to the place
of concealment,--the ravaged hiding place. What could she argue, but
that all that her enemy had planned had befallen? Her child knew all,
and had gone--fled from her and the horror of her life, leaving no sign
of forgiveness or pity.

Sick, and faint, Gard turned away. One door in the corridor stood open,
left so, he divined, by the hurried passing of the mother from the empty
nest, Dorothy's room, all pink and white and girlish in its simplicity.
One fragrant pillow, with its dainty embroidered cover, was dented, as
if still warm from the burning cheek that had pressed it in an agony of
loss. Nothing about the chamber was displaced; only an empty photograph
frame lying upon the dressing table told of the trembling, pale hands
that had bereft it of its jewel. She had taken her little girl's picture
with the heartbroken conviction that never again would she see its
original, or that those girlish eyes would look upon her again save in
fear and loathing. The empty case dropped from his hands to the