“Well, you have come to your senses at last!” he said.
“You no undelstand. Blad men velly thick. Blad men make velly glate tloubal. Little glil she glone; mladam she cly velly much, velly much!”
“Hustle yourself!” ordered Frank. “Don’t stand there chattering like a monkey. Hurry up!”
“Hully velly flast,” was the assurance, as the Mongolian turned and toddled away at a snail’s pace, leaving Frank in the reception room.
A few moments later there was a rustle of skirts, and a middle-aged woman, whose face was pale and eyes red and who carried a handkerchief in her hand, came down the stairs and found him waiting.
“Oh, Mr. Merriwell!” she exclaimed, the moment she saw him. “So it’s really you! So you have come! We didn’t know where to reach you, and so we wired your brother. He wired back that he had dispatched you and that he thought you would come without delay.”
Her agitation and distress were apparent.
“Felicia,” questioned Frank huskily; “what of her?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you—I can’t tell you!” choked the woman, placing the handkerchief to her eyes. “It’s so dreadful!”
“Tell me, Mrs. Staples, at once,” said Frank, immediately cool and self-controlled. “Don’t waste time, please. What has happened to Felicia? Where is she?”