As the light had fallen on John Brooks’ honest face, how she had longed to spring forward with a glad little cry and throw herself into his strong, sheltering arms! She wondered childishly why he was there with Mr. Tudor, the detective, whose voice she had instantly recognized.
“I have two errands here to-night,” said the detective, pleasantly. “I hope I shall bring good news, in one sense; the other we will discuss later on.”
The master of Whitestone Hall made no comments; still he wondered why the detective had used the words “one sense.” Surely, he thought, turning pale, his long-lost child could not be dead.
Like one in a dream, Daisy heard the detective go carefully over the ground with Basil Hurlhurst––all the incidents connected with the loss of his child. Daisy listened out of sheer wonder. She could not tell why.
“I think we have the right clew,” continued the detective, “but we have no actual proof to support our supposition; there is one part still cloudy.”
There were a few low-murmured words spoken to John Brooks. There was a moment of silence, broken by her uncle John’s voice. For several moments he talked rapidly and 186 earnestly, interrupted now and then by an exclamation of surprise from the master of Whitestone Hall.
Every word John Brooks uttered pierced Daisy’s heart like an arrow. She uttered a little, sharp cry, but no one heard her. She fairly held her breath with intense interest. Then she heard the detective tell them the story of Rex Lyon’s marriage with her, and he had come to Whitestone Hall to stop the ceremony about to be performed.
Basil Hurlhurst scarcely heeded his words. He had risen to his feet with a great, glad cry, and pushed aside the silken curtains that led to the study. As he did so he came face to face with Daisy Brooks, standing motionless, like a statue, before him. Then she fell, with a low, gasping cry, senseless at Basil Hurlhurst’s feet.