It had been just one hour since Basil Hurlhurst had entered that room, a placid-faced, gray-haired man. When he left it his hair was white as snow from the terrible ordeal through which he had just passed.
He scarcely dared hope that he should yet find her––where or how he should find her, if ever.
In the corridor he passed groups of maidens, but he neither saw nor heard them. He was thinking of the child that had been stolen from him in her infancy––the sweet little babe with the large blue eyes and shining rings of golden hair.
He saw Pluma and Rex greeting some new arrivals out on the flower-bordered terrace, but he did not stop until he had reached his own apartments.
He did not send for Pluma, to divulge the wonderful discovery he had made. There was little sympathy or confidence between the father and daughter.
“I can never sleep again until I have some clew to my child!” he cried, frantically wringing his hands.
Hastily he touched the bell-rope.
“Mason,” he said to the servant who answered the summons, “pack my valise at once. I am going to take the first train to Baltimore. You have no time to lose.”
He did not hear the man’s ejaculation of surprise as his eyes fell on the face of the master who stood before him with hair white as snow––so utterly changed in one short hour.