"That depends," she answered, laying her hand protectingly over the girl's.

"You could leave Miss Farlow's on the moment?"

"Yes."

"Then you will stay and be Miss Florence's companion?"

"Gladly."

"What is my father's name?"

"Hargreave, Stanley Hargreave."

The girl's eyes widened in terror. Suddenly she burst into a wild frenzy of sobbing, her head against the shoulder of her erstwhile teacher.

Jones appeared visibly shocked. "What is it?"

"We read the story in the newspaper," said the elder woman, her own eyes filling with tears. "The poor child! To have all her castles-in-air tumble down like this! But what authority have you to engage me?" sensibly.

Jones produced a doc.u.ment, duly signed by Hargreave, and witnessed and sealed by a notary, in which it was set forth that Henry Jones, butler and valet to Stanley Hargreave, had full powers of attorney in the event of his (Hargreave's) disappearance; in the event of his death, till Florence became of legal age.

Said Jones as he put the doc.u.ment back in his pocket: "What is your name?"

"Susan Wane."

"Do you love this child?"

"With all my heart, the poor unhappy babe!"

"Thank you!"

Inside the home he conducted them through the various rooms, at the same time telling them what had taken place during the preceding night.

"They have not found his body?" asked Florence. "My poor, poor father!"

"No."

"Then he may be alive!"

"Please G.o.d that he may!" said the butler, with genuine piety, for he had loved the man who had gone forth into the night so bravely and so strangely. "This is your room. Your father spent many happy hours here preparing it for you."

Tears came into the girl's eyes again, and discreetly Jones left the two alone.

"What shall I do, Susan? Whatever shall I do?"

"Be brave as you always are. I will never leave you till you find your father."

Florence kissed her fervently. "What is your opinion of the butler?"

"I think we may both trust him absolutely."

Then Florence began exploring the house. Susan followed her closely.

Florence peered behind the mirrors, the pictures, in the drawers of the desk, in the bookcases.

"What are you hunting for, child?"

"A photograph of father." But she found none. More, there were no photographs of any kind to be found in Stanley Hargreave's home.

When Norton awoke, he naturally went to the door for the morning papers which were always placed in a neat pile before the sill. He yawned, gathered up the bundle, was about to climb back into bed, when a headline caught his dull eyes. Twenty-one minutes later, to be precise, he ran up the steps of the Hargreave home and rang the bell.

He was admitted by the taciturn Jones, to whom the reporter had never paid any particular attention. Somehow Jones always managed to stand in shadows.

"I can add nothing to what has already appeared in the newspapers,"

replied Jones, as Norton opened his batteries of inquiries.

"Mr. Jones, I have known your master several years, as you will recollect. There never was a woman in this house, not even among the servants. There are two in the other room. Who are they? And what are they doing here?"

Jones shook his head.

"Well, I can easily find out."

Jones barred his path, and for the first time Norton gazed into the eyes of the man servant. They were as hard as gun metal.

"My dear Mr. Jones, you ought to know that sooner or later we reporters find out what we seek."

Jones appeared to reflect. "Mr. Norton, you claim to be a friend of Mr. Hargreave?"

"I do not claim. I am. More than that I do not believe he is dead.

He was deep. He had some relentless enemies--I don't know where from or what kind--and he is pretending he's dead till this blows over and is forgotten."

"You are not going to say that in your newspaper?" Jones was visibly agitated.

"Not if I can prove it."

"If I tell you who those young ladies are, will you give me your word of honor not to write about them till I give my permission?"

Norton, having in mind the big story at the end of the mystery tangle, agreed.

"The elder is a teacher from a private school; the other is Stanley Hargreave's daughter."

"Good lord!" gasped the astonished reporter. "He never mentioned the fact to me, and we've been together in some tight places."

"He never mentioned it to any one but me." Jones again seemed to reflect. At last he raised his glance to the reporter. "Are you willing to wait for a great story, the real story?"

"If there is one," answered Norton with his usual caution.

"On my word of honor, you shall have such a story as you never dreamed of, if you will promise not to divulge it till the appointed time."

"I agree."