"This is Olga Perigoff. Is Florence there?"
"No, madam. She has just stepped out for a moment. Shall I tell her to call you when she returns?"
"Yes, please. I want her and Susan and Mr. Norton to come to tea to-morrow. Good-by."
Jones hung up the receiver, sank into a chair near by and buried his face in his hands.
"What is it?" cried Susan, terrified by the haggardness of his face.
"She's gone! My God, those wretches have got her! They've got her!"
Florence was whirled away at top speed. Her father! She was actually on the way to her father, whom she had always loved in dreams, yet never seen.
Number 78 Grove Street was not an attractive place, but when she arrived she was too highly keyed to take note of its sordidness. She was rather out of breath when she reached the door of the third flat. She knocked timidly. The door was instantly opened by a man who wore a black mask. She would have turned then and there and flown but for the swift picture she had of a well-dressed man at a table. He lay with his head upon his arms.
"Father!" she whispered.
The man raised his careworn face, so very well done that only the closest scrutiny would have betrayed the paste of the theater. He arose and staggered toward her with outstretched arms. But the moment they closed about her Florence experienced a peculiar shiver.