"That wasn't meant to be permanent," she explained—"merely an experiment. I went there for two reasons: to be rid for a while of their incessant attempts to hasten my marriage with Bayard; and because I suddenly realised I knew nothing about my father's estate, and found I was to know nothing for another year—that is, until, under his will, I come into my fortune. Old Mr. Shaynon would tell me nothing—treated me as though I were still a child. Moreover I had grown deeply interested in the way our girls were treated; I wanted to know about them—to be sure they were given a fair chance—earned enough to live decently—and other things about their lives—you can imagine...."
"I think I understand," said P. Sybarite gravely.
"I had warned them more than once I'd run away if they didn't let me alone.... You see, Mr. Shaynon insisted it was my father's wish that I should marry Bayard, and on that understanding I promised to marry him when I came into possession of the estate. But that didn't suit—or rather, it seemed to satisfy them only for a little time. Very soon they were pestering me again to marry at once. I couldn't see the need—and finally I kept my word and ran away—took my room in Thirty-eighth Street, and before long secured work in my own store. At first I was sure they'd identify me immediately; but somehow no one seemed to suspect me, and I stayed on, keeping my eyes open and collecting evidence of a system of mismanagement and oppression—but I can't talk about that calmly—"
"Please don't if it distresses you," P. Sybarite begged gently.
"At all events," she resumed, "it wasn't until to-night that Bayard found out where I was living—as you saw. At first I refused to return home, but he declared my disappearance was creating a scandal; that one newspaper threatened to print a story about my elopement with a chauffeur, and that there was other unpleasant talk about Mr. Shaynon's having caused me to be spirited away so that he might gain control of my estate—"
"Wonder what put that into his head!" P. Sybarite broke in with quickening curiosity.
"He insisted that these stories could only be refuted if I'd come home for a few days and show myself at this dance to-night. And when I still hesitated, he threatened—"
"What?" growled the little man.
"That, if I didn't consent, he'd telephone the paper to go ahead and publish that awful story about the chauffeur."
P. Sybarite caught himself barely in time to shut his teeth upon an expletive.