That roused the old man from his stunned condition. He sat more upright, and peered into the darkness. Words were suddenly coming back to him—words recently uttered by Mary Davis, but forgotten hitherto in the shock of his discovery. Mary Davis had spoken of his gold,—had foretold that he would some day lose it. What if Mary Davis had found his hiding-places, and had abstracted his treasure? The idea occurred to him distinctly. He did not suspect her of any intention to steal, for he knew her of old to be scrupulously honest; but she might, he thought, have laid hands on the money to use it for Daisy, since she so often complained that he would not allow Daisy enough; and somehow the dishonesty of such an act did not strike Isaac. He quite believed Mary to be capable of it.
Stumbling across the room, striking against pieces of furniture in the dark, he unbolted his door with nervous haste, reached Daisy's door, found it fastened, and rapped heavily.
Daisy, roused from her quiet sleep, gave a startled cry, and Mary, who had not yet gone to bed, hastened to her side. "Don't you be frightened, dear; it's nothing," she said. "Don't tremble, Daisy. It's only your father."
"But what can he want?" asked Daisy fearfully, as Isaac shouted hoarse demands for admittance.
"You can't come in now; it's too late," Mary called from beside Daisy.
Isaac was past taking in the sense of what she said. He battered furiously with all the strength at his command, finding relief in the action, and shouting incoherent words.
"It isn't like father to get in this sort of state," Daisy said tremblingly. "Nurse, what can it be? I never knew him in such a rage. He'll break in soon. The lock is so weak."
Mary had her own fears on that head. She went close to the door and called out, "Stop, Mr. Meads, stop. What is it you want?"
"I want my money," Isaac cried in a frenzy of distress. "I want my money. It's gone, every penny of it; and I mean to have it back. If you don't give it me this minute, I'll—"
The threat following was indistinct, but Mary could imagine its import. Though she had never before seen Isaac Meads in precisely this condition, she knew that a man completely overcome by passion is capable of almost any deed. Isaac Meads was old and feeble, yet the strength lent by rage might well make him temporarily more than a match for any ordinary woman. Mary thought of Betsy Simmons' strong frame longingly.