Mrs. Burton looked after them helplessly. A suspicion suddenly flashed in her brain and she turned back to Gladwin.
“I feel sure that you are deceiving me,” she charged him, “and that that other young man is Travers Gladwin. You can’t tell me that his wrists were not handcuffed, for I just saw them.”
“You are entirely mistaken,” Gladwin returned soberly. “If you will kindly step out into the music room I will show you a modest portrait of myself that was painted three years ago by an eminent American artist. Helen you will pardon us for just a moment,” and he turned with a broad smile that won him a smile in return, for the humor of the situation had gradually beaten down whatever other emotions stirred in the girl’s breast.
Like one reluctantly led in a dream, Mrs. Burton allowed Gladwin to escort her into the music room outside and conduct her to a painting that hung in an obscure corner of the room.
“Do you think it flatters me?” he asked, as she regarded it dumbly.
She looked at him curiously and then back at the portrait, then shook her head and muttered:
“There’s a mystery here somewhere. You are all banded together in a conspiracy. I do not know whom to believe. But it has gone far enough. We will go back to Omaha to-morrow. I had no idea New York was such a terrible place. Why are all these policemen running about?”
“Mainly in your interest,” responded Gladwin quickly, “but if you will consent not to send me to jail I will get them out of the house and keep the unhappy termination of my romance out of the newspapers.”
“Of course, it must not get in the newspapers,” cried the horrified Mrs. Burton.