Through all this time Norton, the reporter, Hargreave's only friend, slept the sleep of the just and unjust. He rarely opened his eyes before noon.
Group after group of passengers Jones eyed eagerly. Often, just as he was in the act of approaching a couple of young women, some man would hurry up, and there would be kisses or handshakes. At length the crowd thinned, and then it was that he discovered a young girl perhaps eighteen, accompanied by a young woman in the early thirties. They had the appearance of eagerly awaiting some one. Jones stepped forward with a good deal of diffidence.
"You are waiting for some one?"
"Yes," said the elder woman, coldly.
"A broken bracelet?"
The distrust on both faces vanished instantly. The young girl's face brightened, her eyes sparkled with suppressed excitement.
"You are ... my father?"
"No, miss," very gravely. "I am the butler."
"Let me see your part of the bracelet," said the young girl's guardian, a teacher who had been assigned to this delicate task by Miss Farlow, who could not bring herself to say good-by to Florence anywhere except at the school gates.
The halves were produced and examined.