It seemed like a grim mocking of fate that the Beresfords, who would have rejoiced to hear of the death of St. George’s sweetheart, should have put themselves to great expense to trace Florence Fane in her mysterious disappearance. Yet they had done so.
Mrs. Beresford was at heart a noble lady, and, where personal pride did not goad her to extremes, a firm friend.
She had taken a strong, admiring interest in the pretty young salesgirl whose beauty had charmed her, and whose pride had amused her while it also inspired respect.
She would not have owned it to herself, but Floy’s blue eyes had looked straight into her heart and won herself a place there.
She had conceived the idea of employing the young girl to act as a model for Alva, and her disappointment was almost as keen as Alva’s when she learned the truth.
Each day they both felt the disappointment more keenly, until from the mother came the startling suggestion:
“Why not put a private detective on her track?”
“Mamma, you seem to feel sure that the girl is alive, while on my side I think that her brain was injured by her terrible fall, and that she left the hospital in a dazed condition and met death in her wanderings.”
“I have a strange feeling that the girl is alive and will be found again, dear, so I shall put a detective on the case at once,” returned Mrs. Beresford; and she sent for one in whom she knew she could place confidence, and sent him on the quest.