“My child—I sent my child to her aunt—twenty years ago.”
Again Mr. Follingsbee looks from one face to the other inquiringly, and an expression of apprehension crosses the face of the Chief.
“Mr. Ainsworth’s daughter was less than three years old when she was sent to Mr. Uliman’s care. In searching out the history of this family, I learn that they left an adopted daughter,” the Chief explained.
Mr. Follingsbee coughs nervously.
“They left such a daughter,” he says, hesitatingly, “but—she was an adopted daughter—the child of unknown parents.”
Slowly John Ainsworth rises to his feet, his eyes turning appealingly from one to the other.
“My God!” he exclaims hoarsely, “where then is my child?”
In silence the three who sympathize with this father, look at one another helplessly. And as they sit thus silent, from the outer office comes the sound of a clear, ringing, buoyant laugh.
Instantly the Chief starts forward, but the door flies open in his face, and Richard Stanhope stands upon the threshold.
“Stanhope!” exclaims the Chief; “why, Dick!”