"At least you will leave word where you are going, Miss Florence."
"The Queen Hotel. And if you say another word I'll discharge you. Come, Susan."
There happened to be a taxicab conveniently near (as Vroon took care there should be), and Florence at once engaged it. She did not see the man hiding in the bushes. The two young women stepped into the taxicab and were driven off. They had been gone less than five minutes when Jones returned with his purchase, to find the house empty of its most valuable asset. He was furious, not only at the maid, who, he realized, was virtually helpless, but at his own negligence.
In the midst of his violent harangue the bell sounded. In his bones he knew what was going to be found there. It was a letter on the back of which was drawn the fatal black mask. With shaking fingers he tore open the envelope and read the contents:
"Florence is now in our power. Only the surrender of the million will save her. Our agent will call in an hour for an answer. THE BLACK HUNDRED."
As a matter of fact, they had wanted Jones almost as badly as Florence, but her desire for a book—some popular story of the day—had saved him from the net. The letter had been written against this possibility.
Jones became cool, now that he knew just what to face. The Queen Hotel meant nothing. Florence would not be taken there. He called up Norton. It took all the butler's patience, however, as it required seven different calls to locate the reporter.
Meantime the taxicab containing Florence and Susan spun madly toward the water front. Here the two were separated by an effective threat. Florence recognized the man Vroon and knew that to plead for mercy would be a waste of time. She permitted herself to be led to a waiting launch. Always when she disobeyed Jones something like this happened. But this time they had cunningly struck at her heart, and all thought of her personal safety became as nothing. For the present she knew that she was in no actual physical danger. She was merely to be held as a hostage. Would Susan have mentality enough to tell Jones where the taxicab had stopped? She doubted. In an emergency Susan had proved herself a nonentity, a bundle of hysterical thrills.
As a matter of fact, for once Florence's deductions were happily wrong. When the chauffeur peremptorily deposited Susan on the lonely country road, several miles from home, she ran hot-foot to the nearest telephone and sent a very concise message home. Susan was becoming acclimated to this strange, exciting existence.
Norton arrived in due time, and he and Jones were mapping out a plan when Susan's message came.