CHAPTER XXXII
THE STORM
Long after the luncheon gong had sounded Betty Thompson sat at her desk in the library, too agitated to think of eating, too anxious about the outcome of things to take her mind off the tense situation. Whichever way she turned perplexities confronted her. There in the conservatory was the stolen money, but she had promised not to touch it until this wretched detective had gone. When would he go? And there in her little chamber was this unfortunate girl, Hester Storm, whom she must save somehow, but how? And, wandering about the village of Ippingford—what could be keeping him?—was Lionel Fitz-Brown, bearer of that desperate cable message that might save Hiram Baxter or—or it might ruin him. Oh, dear, why didn't Lionel come back?
When Horatio entered presently with some food on a tray, a little cold meat and a salad, Betty shook her head sadly. She had no appetite, she really could not eat.
"You seem troubled, my dear," said Merle with kindly concern. "Is there anything I can do?"
"No, thank you," she answered wearily.
The clergyman put down the tray, looked about him cautiously, and then, tiptoeing close to Betty, he whispered: "Miss Thompson—that man—the detective?"
"Yes?"
Horatio lifted his chin wisely, and, with a tragic thumb, pointed to the library door.
"He's still waiting. He seems to be everywhere at once. In the words of King Solomon, he lieth in wait at every corner. I wish he would go away."