Betty glanced at her mother with a roguish shrug.

"Well, as I tell mother, now that I've got him trained, he does very well."

"My _dear_!" murmured her mother.

"Trained?" The question was the doctor's.

"Yes. You see at first he was such a bear."

"Oh, Betty!" exclaimed her mother, in very genuine distress.

But Betty plainly was in one of her most mischievous moods. With another merry glance at her mother she turned to the doctor.

"It's only this, doctor. You see, at first he was so silent and solemn, and Benton and Sarah and Mrs. Gowing were so scared, and the whole house was so scared and silent and solemn, that it seemed some days as if I should scream, just to make a little excitement. But it's all very different now. Benton and Sarah are all smiles, Mrs. Gowing actually laughs sometimes, and the only trouble is there isn't time enough for Mr. Denby to get in all the talking he wants to."

"Then Mr. Denby seems happier?"

"Oh, very much. Of course, at first it was just about the work--we're cataloguing the curios; but lately it's been in other ways. Why, the other day he found I could play and sing a little, and to-day he asked me to sing for him. And I did."

Helen sat suddenly erect in her chair.

"Sing? You sang for Mr. Denby?" she cried, plainly very much agitated.

"But you hadn't told me--that!"

"I hadn't done it till this afternoon, just before I came home," laughed Betty.

"But what did you sing? Oh, you--you didn't sing any of those foolish, nonsensical songs, did you?" implored Helen, half rising from her chair.

"But I did," bridled Betty. Then, as her mother fell back dismayed, she cried: "Did you suppose I'd risk singing solemn things to a man who had just learned to laugh?"

"But, _ragtime_!" moaned Helen, "when he's always hated it so!"

"'Always hated it so'!" echoed Betty, with puzzled eyes. "Why, I hadn't played it before, dearie. I hadn't played anything!"

"No, no, I--I mean always hated everything gay and lively _like_ ragtime," corrected Helen, her cheeks abnormally pink, as she carefully avoided the doctor's eyes. "Why didn't you play some of your good music, dear?"

"Oh, I did, afterwards, of course,--MacDowell and Schubert, and that lullaby we love. But he liked the ragtime, too, all right. I know he did. Besides, it just did me good to liven up the old house a bit. I know Benton was listening in the hall, and I'm positive Sarah and the cook had the dining-room door open. As for Mrs. Gowing, she--dear old soul--just sat and frankly cried. And the merrier I sang, the faster the tears rolled down her face--but it was for joy. I could see that. And once I heard her mutter: 'To think that ever again I should hear music and laughter--_here_!' Dr. Gleason, did Mr. Denby ever love somebody once, and do I look like her?"

Taken utterly by surprise, the doctor, for one awful minute, floundered in appalled confusion. It was Helen this time who came to the rescue.

"I shall tell the doctor he needn't answer that question, Betty," she said, with just a shade of reproval in her voice. "If he did know of such a thing, do you think he ought to tell you, or anybody else?"

Betty laughed and colored a little.

"No, dear, of course not. And I shouldn't have asked it, should I?"

"But what makes you think he has?" queried the doctor, with very much the air of a small boy who is longing yet fearing to investigate the reason for the non-explosion of a firecracker.

"Because he said twice that I reminded him of some one, particularly with my hat on; and both times, afterward, he looked so romantic and solemn"--Betty's eyes began to twinkle--"that I thought maybe I was on the track of a real, live love-story, you see. But he hasn't said anything about it lately; so perhaps I was mistaken, after all. You see, really, he's quite like folks, now, since we've been working on the curios."

"And how are you getting along with those?"

"Very well, only it's slow, of course. There is such a ma.s.s of material, and so much to look up and study up besides. We're just getting it together and tabulating it now on temporary sheets. We shan't begin the real cataloguing on the final cards until we have all our material in hand, Mr. Denby says."

"But you aren't getting tired of it?"

"Not a bit! I love it--even the digging after dates. I'm sure _you_ can understand that," she smiled.

"Yes, I can understand that," he smiled back at her. And now, for the first time for long minutes, he dared to look across the room into Helen Denby's eyes.

CHAPTER XXIV

COUNTER-PLOTS

In thinking it over afterwards Burke Denby tried to place the specific thing that put into his mind that most astounding suggestion. He knew very well the precise moment of the inception of the idea--it had been on Christmas night as he sat before the fire in his gloomy library. But what had led to it? Of just what particular episode concerning his acquaintance with this girl had he been thinking when, like a blinding flash out of the dark, had leaped forth those startling words?

He had been particularly lonely that evening, perhaps because it was Christmas, and he could not help comparing his own silent fireside with the gay, laughter-filled, holly-trimmed homes all about him. Being Christmas, he had not had even the divertis.e.m.e.nt of his secretary's presence--companionship. Yes, it was companionship, he decided. It could not but be that when she brought so much love and enthusiasm to the work, as well as the truly remarkable skill and knowledge she displayed.

And she was, too, such a charming girl, so bright and lovable. The house had not been the same since she came into it. He hoped he might keep her. He should not like to let her go--now. But if only she could be there all the time! It would be much easier for _her_--winter storms were coming on now; and as for him--he should like it very much. The evenings were interminably long sometimes. He wondered if, after all, it might not be arranged. There was a mother, he believed. They lived in an apartment on West Hill. But she could doubtless be left all right, or she might even come, too, if it were necessary. Surely the house was large enough, and she might be good company for his cousin. And it would be nice for the daughter. It might, indeed, be a very suitable arrangement all around.

Of course, if he had a wife and daughter of his own, he would not have to be filling his house with strangers like this. If Helen had not-- Curious, too, how the girl was always making him think of Helen--her eyes, especially when she had on her hat, and little ways she had--

It came then, with an electric force that brought him to his feet with almost a cry:--

"What if she were--maybe she _is_--your daughter!"

As he paced the room feverishly, Burke Denby tried to bring the chaos of thoughts into something like order.

It was absurd, of course. It could not be. And yet--there were her eyes so like Helen's, and the way she had of pushing back her hair, and of lifting her chin when she was determined about something. There were, too, actually some little things in her that reminded him of--himself.

And surely her remarkable love and apt.i.tude for the work she was doing for him now ought to mean--something.

But could it be? Was it _possible_? Would Helen do such a fantastic thing--send him his own daughter like this? And the doctor--this girl had been introduced by him. Then he, too, must be in the plot. "A daughter of an old friend." Yes, that might be. But would Gleason lend himself to such a wild scheme? It seemed too absurd to be possible. And yet--

His mind still played with the idea.

Just what did he know about this young woman? Very little. What if, after all, it were Dorothy Elizabeth? And it might be, for all he _knew_ to the _contrary_. She was about the right age, he should judge--his little girl would be eighteen--by now. Her name was Elizabeth; she had told him that, at the same time saying that she was always called "Betty." There was a mother--but he had never heard the girl mention her father. And they had dropped, as it were, right out of a clear sky into Dalton, and into his life. Could it be? Of course it really was too absurd; but yet--

With a sudden setting of his jaws the man determined to put his secretary through a course of questions, the answers to which would forever remove all doubt, one way or another. If at the onset of the questioning she grew suddenly evasive and confused, he would have his answer at once: she was his daughter, and was attempting to keep the knowledge from him until such time as her mother should wish to let the secret out. On the other hand, even if she were not confused or evasive as to her answers, she still might be his daughter--and not know of the relationship. In which case his questions, of course, must be carried to the point where he himself would be satisfied. Meanwhile he would think no more about it; and, above all, he would keep his thoughts from dwelling on what it would be if--she were.

Having reached this wise decision, Burke Denby tossed his half-smoked cigar into the fire and attempted to toss as lightly the whole subject from his mind--an attempt which met with sorry success.

Burke Denby plumed himself that he was doing his questioning most diplomatically when, the next morning, he began to carry out his plans.

With almost superhuman patience he had waited until the morning letters were out of the way, and until he and his secretary were working together over sorting the papers in a hitherto unopened drawer.