The Janney party returned to the hotel, a silent, gloomy trio. The old people were very gentle to Suzanne. On the drive up, Mrs. Janney held her in the hollow of her arm, pressed close, yearning over her in her shame and sorrow and feebleness. To the strong woman she was a child again, a soft, helpless thing. The mother blamed herself for having been hard on her.

After lunch old Sam suggested a drive—the air would do them good. They tried to persuade Suzanne to come, but the young woman, prone on the sofa, a salts bottle at hand, refused to stir. She wanted to be quiet; she wanted to rest. So, knowing the uselessness of argument, they kissed her and went.

Alone, she lay on her back staring at the wall in a trance-like concentration. Her expression did not suggest the state of crushed shame under which her parents thought she languished. In fact her past actions had no place in her mind; she had forgotten her confession in the office. An idea, formidable and obsessing, had taken possession of her, settled on her like a shadow. It was possible that their conclusions were wrong.

She had had it from the start, off and on, coming at her in rushes of disintegrating doubt. She had said nothing about it, had tried to force it down, and, talking to them, had been reassured by their unquestioning certainty. Now the scene in the office had strengthened it—something about Esther Maitland, she didn't know what. She had assured herself then—she tried to do it now—that there could be no mistake, they had proofs, the girl hadn't been able to explain anything. But she could not argue it away; it persisted, stronger than thought, power or will, unescapable like the horror of a dream.

It came from an instinct that kept whispering deep down in the recesses of her being, "Chapman couldn't have done it." She knew him better than the others did, the vagaries of his ugly temper, the lines his weaknesses ran upon. She knew him through and through, to what lengths anger might urge him, what he could do when aroused and what he never could do. And trying to convince herself of his guilt, marshaling the facts against him, going over them point by point, she couldn't make herself believe that he had stolen Bébita.

And if he hadn't, then where was she?

This was the hideous thought, pressing in upon her recognition, intrusive as Banquo's ghost and as terrible. She writhed under its torment, twisting and turning until her clothes were wound about her in a tangled coil, moaning as her imagination touched at and recoiled from grisly possibilities.

She was lying thus when the door-bell rang. Glad of any interruption she sat up, and, swinging her feet to the floor, called out a sharp "Come in." A bell-boy entered with a letter which he presented with the information that Mr. Janney had ordered all mail to be brought immediately to the rooms. The letter was for her, addressed in typewriting, and as the boy withdrew she rose, heavy-eyed and heavy-headed, and tore open the envelope. The first line brought a thin, choked cry out of her, and then she stood motionless, her glance devouring the words. Dated the day before, typewritten on a single sheet of commercial paper, it ran as follows:

"Mrs. Suzanne Price,

" Dear Madam:

"We have your little girl. She is safe with us and will continue to be if you act in good faith and accede to our demands. We frankly state that our object in taking her was ransom and we are now ready to enter upon negotiations with you. This, however, only upon certain conditions. All transactions between us must be conducted with absolute secrecy. If any member of your family is told, if the police are notified, be assured that we will know it, and that it will react upon your child. Let it be clearly understood—if you inform against us, if you make an attempt to trap or apprehend us, she will pay the price. We hold her as a hostage; her fate is in your hands. If, however, you know of a person in no wise involved or connected with you or your family, having no personal interest in the matter, and of whose discretion and reliability you are convinced, we are willing to deal through them. Copy the form below, fill in blank spaces with name and address and insert in Daily Record personals.

"(Name)..................................

"(Address)...............................

"S. O. S.

" Clansmen."

Suzanne's hand holding the paper dropped to her side and she looked about the room with eyes vacant and unseeing. All her outward forces were shocked into temporary suspension; for a moment she had no realization of where or who she was. The letter was the only fact she recognized and sentences from it chased through her consciousness: "We hold her as a hostage, her fate is in your hands. She is safe with us if you accede to our demands." She saw them written on the walls, they boomed in her ears like notes of doom. It was confirmation of that instinct she had tried to smother; like the wand of a baleful genii it had transformed her nightmare fancies into sinister reality.