having her with us over here. Send her over at once with Dufresne.
Never was so happy in my life. Force."

The reply was: "Come and get her, but bring your wife with you.
Bingle."

"I am not sure that I trust Force," said Mr. Bingle to his wife as
they discussed the banker's message. "Like as not he wants to get the
child over in Europe and leave her there with strangers until she
grows up, or something of the sort. What proof have we that he has
told his wife? How do we know that she is keen about Kathie? She never
has been. As a matter of fact, she brags about her hatred for
children. Openly says she despises 'em. Prefers her dogs and cats, and
all such rubbish as that. No, sir, Mary; I don't pack Kathie off with
a strange Frenchwoman, destined for heaven knows what, and that's all
there is to it. The thing looks fishy to me. Maybe it's, a plot--a
dark, cruel plot to get the child out of the country. If he wants me
to believe that Mrs. Force is keen about Kathie, she'll have to say so
herself, in so many words, and, blame me, Mary, I don't believe I'll
let her say 'em by telegraph either."

"But he is the president of the bank, Thomas," said Mrs. Bingle, as if
that were all that was necessary to put him above suspicion.

"I am not dealing with the president of the bank, my dear," said Mr.
Bingle stiffly. "I am dealing with my next door neighbour, and I have
a mighty poor opinion of him. The boy is waiting. I'll just write an
answer to his cablegram and get it off at once."

The day after they landed in New York, Mr. and Mrs. Force paid a