A little scream, and Miss Myrick—for it was she—asked of Lola, who stood white and ghostly in the doorway, "Is that your mother, Lola? Oh, then I understand it all. Poor Charlie? The woman who could—"
Mrs. Wheaton stepped quickly forward. "Stop, Augusta Myrick; not one word more before my child."
Mr. Wheaton had descended the stairs, and sprung to his wife, who seemed ready to sink, but Lola, unheeding both, clutched Miss Myrick's arm.
"Charlie?" she gasped.
"Oh, Lola! he's gone; his room is empty and all his papers have been stolen or destroyed. My poor, poor boy."
"Gone—to his death without me! How cruel—but I am coming, Charlie; I will follow you."
Her eyes were wandering, and she broke from Miss Myrick's grasp.
"Hold her," cried Miss Myrick, "hold her. Charlie is dead and she is crazed. Help!"
Mr. Wheaton was beside himself, and Mrs. Wheaton flung her arms about Lola, who was struggling to free herself. At last her father's strong hands bore her to a sofa in the nearest room, and as he laid her down the weary eyes closed and the fainting head drooped back.
"Not dead," he groaned. "Oh, God, not dead!" and as the mother and the strange woman bent low over the prostrate girl, a tall, manly form broke into the room, as though led there by an unerring instinct.