“By letter?”
“No; through the morning papers. Use this form.”
Taking from his pocket a note-book, he wrote upon a leaf a few words, tore it from the book, and put it into her hand.
“That is safer than a letter,” he said, rising. “One word more, madam. Tell Alan Warburton to be doubly guarded against Van Vernet. His danger increases at every step. Now we will call Mr. Follingsbee.”
“One moment, Mr. Stanhope. Alan has employed detectives to search for Daisy, but none of them know what you know. Will you find her for me?” She held out her hands appealingly.
The detective looked at her in silence for a moment, then, striding forward, he took the outstretched hands in both his own, and gazing down into her face said, gently:
“I will serve you to the extent of my power, dear lady. I will find the little one, if I can.”
Mr. Follingsbee had passed his hour of waiting in the most comfortable manner possible, fast asleep in a big lounging-chair. Being aroused, he departed with Stanhope, manifesting no curiosity concerning the outcome of the detective’s visit.
While their footsteps yet lingered on the outer threshold, Winnie French came flying down the stairway.
“Come quick!” she cried to Leslie. “Archibald is worse; he is dying!”