"Look!" cried Mary, as she went through the rooms with Bob. "There is a handkerchief. She snatched it up. It was one of her own, with the initials "M. B." in a monogram.
"Lorna has been here," she exclaimed. "I remember handing her that very handkerchief when we were in the store yesterday."
"What's to be done now?" thought Bobbie. "We had better go up to your father and tell him what we know—it is not as bad as it might have been."
"Precious little comfort," sighed Mary, exhausted beyond tears.
They reached the desolate home, and Bob broke the news to the old man. As Mary poured forth her story of the discovery in Trubus' office, her father's face lighted with renewed hope.
To their surprise he laughed, softly, and then spoke:
"Mary, my child, my long hours of study and labor on my own invention have not been in vain. My dictagraph-recorder—this very model here, which I have just completed shall be put to its first great test to save my own daughter. Heaven could reward me in no more wonderful manner than to let it help in the rescue of little Lorna—why did I not think of it sooner?"
"What shall we do, father?" breathlessly cried Mary.
"Can I help, Mr. Barton?"
"Describe the arrangement of the offices."