“Have you found her?” exclaimed a well-known voice. “Oh, my child! How could you leave your father’s roof!”
It was John Potts.
Beatrice was silent for a moment in utter amazement. Yet she made a violent effort against her despair.
“You have no control over me,” said she, bitterly. “I am of age. And you,” said she to the policeman, “I demand your help. I put myself under your protection, and order you either to take that man in charge or to let me go to my home.”
“Oh, my daughter!” cried Potts. “Will you still be relentless?”
“Help me!” cried Beatrice, and she opened the cab-door.
“The policeman can do nothing,” said Potts. “You are not of age. He will not dare to take you from me.”
“I implore you,” cried Beatrice, “save me from this man. Take me to the police-station—any where rather than leave me here!”
“You can not,” said Potts to the bewildered policeman. “Listen. She is my daughter and under age. She ran away with a strolling Italian vagabond, with whom she is leading an improper life. I have got her back.”
“It’s false!” cried Beatrice, vehemently. “I fled from this man’s house because I feared his violence.”