The girl for a moment did not answer, her face reddening with a sudden embarrassment. Mrs. Janney saw the blush, read it as reluctance and exclaimed:
"Oh, Miss Maitland, don't say you refuse. It's as if you wouldn't take my hand held out in apology, in friendship."
"No, no"—Esther was obviously distressed—"don't think that, Mrs. Janney, it's not that. It's that I can't—I've—I've made another engagement—I'm going to marry Mr. Ferguson."
[CHAPTER XXX—MOLLY'S STORY]
It's my place to finish, tell the end of the story and straighten it all out. Some of it's been cleared up clean, with the people on the spot to give the evidence, some of it we had to work out from what we knew and what we guessed. Willitts, who was a gamy guy, told his tale from start to finish, and loved doing it, they said, like an actor who'd rather be dead in the spotlight than alive in the wings. Larkin's part we had to put together from what we could get from Bébita and what Mrs. Price gave up.
Bébita, the way children do, saw plain and could tell what she saw as accurate as a phonograph. It made tears come to hear the dear little thing, so sweet and innocent, making us see that even the crooks she was with couldn't help but love her.
When Miss Maitland got out of the taxi at the bookbindery the driver told the child that he knew her Daddy and could take her round to see him while Miss Maitland was in the store. He said it wouldn't take long, that Mr. Price was close by, and they would come back in a few minutes and pick up Miss Maitland. Bébita was crazy to go, and he started, giving her a box of chocolates to eat on the way. Of course she never could tell where he went but it could not have been a long distance, or Larkin—we all were agreed that he drove the cab—couldn't have reached the Fifth Avenue house as soon as he did. The place was evidently a flat over a garage. He told her her father was waiting there, went upstairs with her, and gave her in charge of a woman called Marion who opened the door for them.
During the whole time she was gone she stayed here with Marion, who every morning assured her her Daddy would come that day. She said Marion was very good to her, gave her toys and candies, cooked her meals and played games with her. She cried often and was homesick, and Marion never scolded her but used to take her in her arms and kiss her and tell her stories. She never saw the man again until he came to take her away, but sometimes the bell rang and Marion went out on the stairs and talked to some one.
One evening Marion said she was going home; it would be a long drive and she must be a good girl. Marion dressed her and then gave her a glass of milk, and kissed her a great many times and cried. Bébita cried too, for she was sorry to leave Marion, but she wanted to go home. After that the man came and took her downstairs to the taxi and told her to be very quiet and she'd soon be back at Grasslands. It was dark and they went through the city and then she got very sleepy and laid down on the seat.
No trace of Marion, Larkin's confederate, could be found, and in fact no especial effort was made to do so. The man was dead, the woman, who had evidently treated the child with affectionate care, had fled into the darkness where she belonged. The family, even Mrs. Janney, was contented to let things drop and make an end.