Drew paused. He turned. The magnate towered over the table. His eyes were blood-shot and glazed with resolve.
“No!” he declared. “No, you’ll not have him out! Let him do his duty! Loris, go upstairs!”
“But, father––”
“Go—up—stairs!”
The girl flushed. Scarlet ripples rose from her young breast. Her cheeks crimsoned into two burning spots. She wheeled, gathered up her skirt, and glided swiftly through the portières which dropped behind her like a curtain of a stage.
“Go—up—stairs,” quoted the magpie greatly excited.
Drew retained the vision of Loris long after her footsteps had ceased to sound in the hallway. He grew thoughtful as he waited. There were details to the case which already caused him concern. It was evident that the girl was tremendously high-spirited and willful. Her obedience to her father’s demand had only been after a struggle with her turbulent nature. She had given in to him, but friction was there which might cause trouble at a future hour.
Delaney parted the portières, finally. He strode into the library with a flushed face. He lifted one brow as he jerked his head upward in a mute signal to Drew.
“I guess it’s all O. K.,” he blurted swinging toward Stockbridge and eyeing the bottle beside the telephone. “O. K. upstairs. I searched most everything—posted a valet at the master’s suite and took a look into Miss Stockbridge’s rooms. They seem all right. I guess they’re all right,” he added with candor, which Drew understood referred to the girl and her outburst in her boudoir.
“Good,” Drew said closing his lips. “That’s good. Now, Mr. Stockbridge,” he added, “there will be eight of us on the outside of this house. You have your trusted servants inside. There’s three telephones in good order, thanks to the trouble-man. There’s the entire New York Police and Detective Departments to back us up. There should be no trouble.”