"My dear," said Miss Royle, gently reproving, "ask _any_body."

Gwendolyn reflected. Thomas was freely given to exaggeration. Jane, at times, resorted to bald falsehood. But Gwendolyn had never found reason to doubt Miss Royle.

She moved aside.

The governess turned to the school-room mirror to take a peep at her poke, and slung the chain of her hand-bag across her arm. Then, "I'll be home early," she said pleasantly. And went out by the door leading into the nursery.

Bears!

Gwendolyn stood bewildered. Oh, _why_ were the Zoo bears in her father's street? Did it mean that he was in danger?

The thought sent her toward the nursery door. As she went she glanced back over a shoulder uneasily.

Close to the door she paused. Miss Royle was not yet gone, for there was a faint rustling in the next room. And Gwendolyn could hear the quick _shoo-ish, shoo-ish, shoo-ish_ of her whispering, like the low purl of Johnnie Blake's trout-stream.

Presently, silence.

Gwendolyn went in.

She found Jane standing in the center of the room, mouth puckered soberly, reddish eyes winking with disquiet, apprehension in the very set of her heavy shoulders.

The sight halted Gwendolyn, and filled her with misgivings. Had _Jane_ just heard?

When it came time to prepare for the afternoon motor-ride, Gwendolyn tested the matter--yet without repeating Miss Royle's dire statement.

"Let's go past where my fath-er's office is to-day," she proposed. And tried to smile.

Jane was tucking a small hand through a coat-sleeve. "Well, dearie," she answered, with a sigh and a shake of her red head, "you couldn't hire _me_ to go into that street. And I wouldn't like to see _you_ go."

Gwendolyn paled. "Bears?" she asked. "_Truly?_"

Jane made big eyes. Then turning the slender little figure carefully about, "Gwendolyn, lovie, _Jane_ thinks you'd better give the idear up."

So it was true! Jane--who was happiest when standing in opposition to others; who was certain to differ if a difference was possible--Jane had borne it out!

Moreover, she was frightened! For Gwendolyn was leaning against the nurse. And she could feel her shaking!

Oh, how one terrible thing followed another!

Gwendolyn felt utterly cast down. And the ride in the swift-flying car only increased her dejection. For she did not even have the entertainment afforded by Thomas's enlivening company. He stayed beside the chauffeur--as he had, indeed, ever since the memorable feast of peanuts--and avoided turning his haughty black head. Jane was morose.

Now and then, for no apparent reason, she sniffled.

Gwendolyn's mind was occupied by a terrifying series of pictures that Miss Royle's declaration called up. The central figure of each picture was her father, his safety threatened. Arrived home, she resolved upon still another course of action. She was forced to give up visiting her father at his office. But she would steal down to the grown-up part of the house--at a time _other_ than the dinner-hour--that very night!

Evening fell, and she was not asked to appear in the great dining-room.

That strengthened her determination. However, to give a hint of it would be folly. So, while Miss Royle picked at a chop and tittered over copious draughts of tea, and Thomas chattered unrebuked, she ate her supper in silence.

Ordinarily she rebelled at being undressed. She was not sleepy. Or she wanted to watch the Drive. Or she did not believe it was seven--there was something wrong with the clock. But supper over, and seven o'clock on the strike, she went willingly to bed.

When Gwendolyn was under the covers, and all the shades were down, Jane stepped into the school-room, leaving the door slightly ajar. She snapped on the lights above the school-room table. Then Gwendolyn heard the crackling of a news-paper.

She lay thinking. Why had she not been asked to the great dining-room?

At seven her father--if all were well--should be sitting down to his dinner. But was he ill to-night? or hurt?

A half-hour dragged past. Jane left her paper and tiptoed into the nursery. Gwendolyn did not speak or move. When the nurse approached the bed and looked down, Gwendolyn shut her eyes.

Jane tiptoed out, closing the door behind her. A moment later Gwendolyn heard another door open and shut, then the rumble of a man's deep voice, and the shriller tones of a woman.

The chorus of indistinct voices made Gwendolyn sleepy. She found her eyelids drooping in spite of herself. That would never do! To keep herself awake, she got up cautiously, put on her slippers and dressing-gown, stole to the front window, climbed upon the long seat, and drew aside the shade--softly.

The night was moonless. Clouds hid the stars. The street lamps disclosed the crescent of the Drive only dimly. Beyond the Drive the river stretched like a smooth wide ribbon of black satin. It undulated gently.

Upon the dark water of the farther edge a procession of lights laid a fringe of gold.

There were other lights--where, beyond the precipice, stood the forest houses; where moored boats rocked at a landing-place up-stream; and on boats that were plying past. A few lights made star-spots on the cliff-side.

But most brilliant of all were those forming the monster letters of words. These words Gwendolyn did not pronounce. For Miss Royle, whenever she chanced to look out and see them, said "Shameful!" or "What a disgrace!" or "Abominable!" And Gwendolyn guessed that the words were wicked.

As she knelt, peering out, sounds from city and river came up to her.

There was the distant roll of street-cars, the warning; _honk! honk!_ of an automobile, the scream of a tug; and lesser sounds--feet upon the sidewalk under the window, low laughter from the dim, tree-shaded walk.

She wondered about her father.

Suddenly there rose to her window a long-drawn cry. She recognized it--the high-keyed, monotonous cry of a man who often hurried past with a bundle of newspapers under his arm. Now it startled her. It filled her with foreboding.

"Uxtra! Uxtra! A-a-all about the lubble-lubble-lubble in ump Street!"

Street! _What_ street? Gwendolyn strained her ears to catch the words.

What if it were the street where her fath--

"Uxtra! Uxtra!" cried the voice again. It was nearer, yet the words were no clearer. "A-a-all about the lubble-lubble-lubble in ump Street!"

He passed. His cry died in the distance. Gwendolyn let the window-shade go back into place very gently. To prepare properly for her trip downstairs meant running the risk of discovery. She tiptoed noiselessly to the school-room door. There she listened. Thomas's deep voice was still rumbling on. Punctuating it regularly was a sniffle. And the key-hole showed a spot of glinting red--Jane's hair.

Gwendolyn left the school-room door for the one opening on the hall.

In the hall were shaded lights. Light streamed up the bronze shaft.

Gwendolyn put her face against the scrolls and peered down. The cage was far below. And all was still.

The stairs wound their carpeted length before her. She slipped from one step to another warily, one hand on the polished banisters to steady herself, the other carrying her slippers. At the next floor she stopped before crossing the hall--to peer back over a shoulder, to peer ahead down the second flight.

Outside the high carved door of the library she stopped and put on the slippers. And she could not forbear wishing that she knew which was really her best foot, so that she might put it forward. But there was no time for conjectures. She bore down with both hands on the huge knob, and pressed her light weight against the panels. The heavy door swung open. She stole in.

The library had three windows that looked upon the side street. These windows were all set together, the middle one being built out farther than the other two, so as to form an embrasure. Over against these windows, in the shallow bow they formed, was a desk, of dark wood, and glass-topped. It was scattered with papers and books. Before it sat her father.

The moment her eyes fell upon him she realized that she had not come any too soon. For his shoulders were bent as from a great weight. His head was bowed. His face was covered by his hands.

She went forward swiftly. When she was between the desk and the windows she stopped, but did not speak. She kept her gray eyes on those shielding hands.