“As late as this?”
“Well—no—not quite as late—but I’m sure there’s no reason for you to worry. Come to your room—please—and let me bring you some coffee.”
“Thanks, Griggs,” Marjorie replied gratefully. “You’re very kind, and I appreciate your remaining up with me like this more than I can tell you, but I couldn’t leave here—I must wait.”
“Mrs. Benton, I’ll call you the minute anyone comes. It won’t do any good for you to wear yourself——”
The sound of a machine coming up the driveway cut short further arguments. Griggs rushed to the window.
“Here’s a cab now, Ma’am,” he said, hastening to open the door.
“At last! At last!” Marjorie held her hand over her heart. “Thank God—they’ve come!”
She stood with bated breath, facing the door, expecting she knew not—what. But whatever else it might have been that unfolded itself before Marjorie Benton’s hot worried eyes, it could not have stabbed her as what she did see. An icy hand clutched her heart. The room swam about her. She tried to move forward with a cry, but stood rooted to the spot. For there, standing on the threshold was her own daughter, her baby, Elinor—hair hanging in wild disarray, white-faced, trembling, clothing disarranged, while moans and sobs issued from her distorted pale lips. Holding her up, guiding her tottering footsteps, her arms possessively, protectingly around Marjorie Benton’s daughter was the one woman in the world whom she hated with a deadly hatred, the woman who had taken from her the love of her own husband—Geraldine DeLacy.
The mother’s breath came with a quick intake as her arms went quiveringly out toward the girl.
“Elinor!” the cry came in a pitiful wail.