After opening a leather bag and fumbling about among his belongings, her father handed her an envelope.
“The address is on that,” he said.
At once he appeared to forget her. Having taken some small articles from his bag, he thrust them deep in his pocket. One was a very thin automatic pistol.
One glance about the room, a halting puzzled stare at the pistol and arrow hanging over Drew’s bed, then he was gone.
“He was always like that.” There was a look of tenderness and a smile on the girl’s face.
She turned again to Drew. “I can’t thank you enough,” she said. “I must find Johnny Thompson and thank him, too. It was terrible when father lost interest in everything, and took to forgetting in that horrible way.”
“He’ll be all right now, I think,” Drew replied.
“But I must help him!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet and walking the length of the room. “I must! I will!”
“I am afraid,” said Drew in a quiet tone, “that this is no task for a girl.”
“Girl!” She gave him a look. “I’m eighteen. As long as I can remember, I’ve been helping him.