CHAPTER XXII.
“OH, MY SON, MY SON!”
The clever detective was not the only person who was furtively engaged in an eager search for the missing girl.
Otho Maury, although he had written falsely to St. George Beresford that Floy was dead, had learned already, to his dismay, of her strange disappearance.
He saw that matters were more complicated than ever.
Floy was alive, he felt sure, and he foreboded that she would be turning up at some inopportune moment in Maybelle’s path, and blocking her way to success with Beresford.
He guessed readily enough that Floy had become frightened at his persecutions, and had hidden herself away from him, awaiting Beresford’s return.
And at the bare thought of Beresford’s possessing the enchanting little beauty, Otho’s jealous blood leaped like fire along his veins, and he swore to himself that he would rather murder Floy with his own hands than to witness her happiness with his splendid, noble rival.
Again he held a secret conference with his sister, and she raged with anger when she learned of Floy’s escape from death.
“You have botched everything, and I shall lose the man I love, after all!” she cried, stormily; and her brother, unmoved by her blame, replied, coldly:
“Your chances certainly do not appear good at present; but I will continue to do the best I can for your interests. But the game is in fate’s hands, and will be hard won, if won at all.”