“Yes, sir; it will be ready directly, sir,” said the man, obediently.
“Don’t come to me with any more messages––lock everybody out. Do you hear me, Mason? I will be obeyed!”
“Yes, sir, I hear. No one shall disturb you.”
Again Basil Hurlhurst turned to the portrait, paying little attention to what was transpiring around him. “I shall put it at once in the hands of the cleverest detectives,” he mused; “surely they will be able to find some trace of my lost darling.”
Seventeen years! Ah, what might have happened her in that time? The master of Whitestone Hall always kept a file of the Baltimore papers; he rapidly ran his eye down the different columns.
“Ah, here is what I want,” he exclaimed, stopping short. “Messrs. Tudor, Peck & Co., Experienced Detectives, ––– Street, Baltimore. They are noted for their skill. I will give the case into their hands. If they restore my darling child alive and well into my hands I will make them wealthy men––if she is dead, the blow will surely kill me.”
He heard voices debating in the corridor without.
“Did you tell him I wished particularly to see him?” asked Rex, rather discomfited at the refusal.
“Yes, sir,” said Mason, dubiously.
“Miss Pluma, his daughter, wishes me to speak with him on a very important matter. I am surprised that he so persistently refuses to see me,” said Rex, proudly, wondering if Pluma’s father had heard that gossip––among the guests––that he did not love his daughter. “I do not know that I have offended the old gentleman in any way,” he told himself. “If it comes to that,” he thought, “I can do no more than confess the truth to him––the whole truth about poor little Daisy––no matter what the consequences may be.”