"What?" gasped Johnson Boller. "That's true! That——"
Out at the entrance, a key was scraping in the latch; and when it had scraped for the second time Anthony smiled forlornly.
"Wilkins," he said. "Back to report that the girl's safe at home—whatever good that may do now. Is that you, Wilkins?"
"That's—that's me, sir!" Wilkins puffed.
And the door closed and in the foyer bump—bump—bump indicated that Wilkins was carrying something, a trunk one might almost have thought from the sound. Rather red, gleaming perspiration that had not all come from exertion, Wilkins appeared, moved into the room, gazed feelingly at his master, was about to speak and then caught the sound of voices from David's room.
"The—the parties couldn't attend to the trunk to-day!" said Wilkins.
"She—isn't in there?" Anthony whispered.
"I have no reason to think otherwise, sir," said the faithful one.
"You didn't leave her?"
"There was no one to leave her with, sir, and I was ordered out with the trunk," Wilkins said, smiling wanly. "There wasn't nowhere to come but here, sir, with the police after me."