"I thank my God that she never cared for him in that way, for otherwise her life would have been wrecked; nor could you, who would lay down your life for her happiness, have spared or saved her,—her young affections, her young faith and joy in life, all shattered, and Life the iconoclast! That is the saddest part of it. It is women who suffer most and always. In making this appeal to you, I have had continually in mind his mother, and you, the father of a woman. I know how your pride must have suffered in the knowledge that his name, even, has been connected with hers—but your suffering is as naught compared with that mother's who, at this very moment, is waiting for some telegram from me that shall tell her her son is found, is saved. But I will not over urge, Mr. Van Ostend. If you feel you cannot do this, that it is a matter of principle with you to refuse, there is no need to prolong this interview which is painful to us both. I thank you for the time you have given me." He rose to go. Mr. Van Ostend did likewise.
At that moment a girl's joyous voice sounded in the hall just outside the door.
"Oh, never mind that, Beales; papa never considers me an interruption. I'm going in, anyway, to say good night; I don't care if all Wall Street is there. Has the carriage come?"
There was audible the sound of a subdued protest; then came a series of quick taps on the door and the sound of the gay voice again:
"Papa—just a minute to say good night; if I can't come in, do you come out and give me a kiss—do you hear?"
The two men looked at each other. Mr. Van Ostend stepped quickly to the door and, opening it, stood on the threshold. Something very like a diaphanous white cloud enwrapped him; two thin arms, visible through it, went suddenly round his neck; then his arms enfolded her.
"Oh, Papsy dear, don't hug me so hard! You'll crush all my flowers. Ben sent them; wasn't he a dear? I've promised him the cotillon to-night for them. Good night." She pecked at his cheek again as he released her; the cloud of white liberty silk tulle drifted away from the doorway and left it a blank.
Mr. Van Ostend closed the door; came back to the hearth; stood there, his arms folded tightly over his chest, his head bowed. For a few minutes neither man spoke. When the clock on the mantel chimed a quarter to nine, Father Honoré made a movement to go. Mr. Van Ostend turned quickly to him and put out a detaining hand.
"May I ask if you are going to continue the search this evening; it's a bad night."
"Yes; I've had the feeling that, after he has been so long in hiding, he'll have to come out—he must be at the end of his strength. I am going out with two detectives now; they have been on the case with me. This is quite apart from the general detective agency's work."