"Please God that he may!" said the butler, with genuine piety, for he had loved the man who had gone forth into the night so bravely and so strangely. "This is your room. Your father spent many happy hours here preparing it for you."
Tears came into the girl's eyes again, and discreetly Jones left the two alone.
"What shall I do, Susan? Whatever shall I do?"
"Be brave as you always are. I will never leave you till you find your father."
Florence kissed her fervently. "What is your opinion of the butler?"
"I think we may both trust him absolutely."
Then Florence began exploring the house. Susan followed her closely. Florence peered behind the mirrors, the pictures, in the drawers of the desk, in the bookcases.
"What are you hunting for, child?"
"A photograph of father." But she found none. More, there were no photographs of any kind to be found in Stanley Hargreave's home.
When Norton awoke, he naturally went to the door for the morning papers which were always placed in a neat pile before the sill. He yawned, gathered up the bundle, was about to climb back into bed, when a headline caught his dull eyes. Twenty-one minutes later, to be precise, he ran up the steps of the Hargreave home and rang the bell. He was admitted by the taciturn Jones, to whom the reporter had never paid any particular attention. Somehow Jones always managed to stand in shadows.