"Show him in," instructed Henry Bliss—and, as the man retired, glanced quickly at his daughter. "I hope, Myrna, that—"
"That we've made up our differences!" she supplied, with sudden impatience. "That I quite understand that the gentle old soul in an endeavour to set the world right meant well, and was actuated by the loftiest of motives! Oh, yes, I think Father Anton and I understand each other perfectly, and—"
"Monsieur le Curé!" announced the footman.
Myrna calmly turned her back—but only to whirl suddenly around again, as, with a sharp exclamation, her father stepped quickly toward the door.
"Good heavens, my dear man, what is the matter with you?" Henry Bliss cried out in consternation.
Father Anton's white hair was unbrushed; he was unshaved; and his face already haggard, his eyes already deep-set and blue-circled from his twenty-four hours of bedside vigil, now bore added and unmistakable signs of violent mental agitation and distraction. His hand, that held a piece of torn yellow paper, trembled as though with the ague.
"Ah, Monsieur Bliss—ah, pardon, mademoiselle!" he stammered, and attempted a bow. "I—I have run very fast—and—I—I—"
"Is anything the matter?" inquired Myrna coolly, joining the two at the door.
Father Anton looked at her piteously.
"She is gone!" he said, his lips quivering.