“Well,” he asked, his dry smile mildly sarcastic, “any more dreams?”
“Horrid!” she replied with a little shudder as she poured herself out some coffee. “But I don’t remember them.”
“You will see the doctor to-day, young woman,” observed her father in a tone which indicated his verdict on the happenings of the previous night.
Hetty was docility itself, a phenomenon not altogether lost on her experienced parent.
“Very well, Poppa,” she agreed, demurely. “What are you going to do this morning?”
“I am going to the office to get some papers——”
“The papers——?” She checked herself with a little frightened glance round the room.
Her father laughed—a good, healthy, commonsense laugh.
“The papers!” he said. “No more nonsense about ghosts, Hetty. I’m going to get the papers from my office and take them round to the Conference. So now you know. And there’s a Colt automatic in the pocket of the automobile if any one tries tricks on the way.”