"What was it?" asked Larry.
"It was a little picture of mother and myself. My father was very fond of it. He must have come to the house and taken it—one of his last acts before he disappeared. It made me feel very sad when I thought of it afterward."
"Perhaps he took the picture to Europe with him, and you did not know it," suggested Larry, who was beginning to develop the instincts of a detective, as all reporters do, more or less.
"No," said Grace positively. "I remember, I was the last one in father's room before we sailed for Europe. The carriage was waiting to take us to the pier, and father went out just ahead of me. He spoke of the picture then, saying he would leave it to keep guard over his room until he came back," and once more Grace could not keep back her tears.
"Could the picture have been stolen?" asked Larry.
"The house was in perfect order when we came in," said the girl. "Nothing else was missing. It seems as if father took that picture to—to re
mind him of us—and—and that we would never see him again."
"Oh, yes, you will!" exclaimed Larry heartily. "You will find him all right. Perhaps he has some business matters to attend to out West, and hasn't time to come home."
"He could have written."
"Maybe he is some place where the mails are infrequent."