“Fifty dollars?... Is that all you’ve got, Miss?”
“I’ve got two hundred,” she said.
“Give it to me.”
She thought he was hers and placed the money in his hand.
“Is this all? Are you sure this is all you’ve got?”
“Every penny.”
“Very well, Miss. I shall hand it to your father. It might be, Miss, that you’d find somebody you could bribe.... Now, Miss, if you’ll go into your room I’ll finish my work.”
There was something grim, something quiet and determined, about the man. She was afraid of him, for he seemed not so much a man as an automaton, not controlled by human emotions. She made no protest, but re-entered her room and the door closed after her. Presently sounds of work ceased and she tried the door. It was secured from the outside; she was a prisoner.
Her first impulse was to rush to the window from which she had once made her escape to meet Potter Waite. She peered out. Below was a man with a rake in his hand, ostensibly a gardener, but he was quick to see her in the window. Without a smile he tipped his hat—and drew a step closer.
Hours later a rap came on her door.