But Philip was not prepared for the shock he was to receive when he beheld the appalling likeness of Aimée to Eweretta.
The gardens of the White House were large and well kept.
Philip, who loved this type of old-world garden, paused at the gate to feast his eyes upon it.
It was there he saw her.
She was wandering, a drooping and infinitely sad figure, between the rows of high flox.
Her head was bent, and her slim hands—brown as Eweretta’s had been—were clasped together.
Suddenly she looked up, saw him, and uttered a wild cry, falling prone upon the ground.
Philip grasped the iron gate, shook it violently in a vain effort to open it.
It was locked.
He saw a woman come out and carry off the girl in her arms like an infant.