“Yes, and perhaps much more,” Florence thought with an inward groan. “But her father shall be found. He must be, and that in natural ways. He really must!
“But how?” Her spirits drooped. How? Truly that was the question.
A key in the door startled her from her troubled thoughts. It was Jeanne back from Maxwell Street.
“Did you find that thieving gypsy?” Florence asked.
“No, but we did a glorious sketch of Bihari in his shop.”
“But what of the poor widow? She can’t eat your pictures.”
“N-no.” Jeanne put on a sad face. “I shall find her for you, though! Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” said Florence with a lightning-like change to a lighter mood, “you shall go to that place on North Clark Street and have your past as well as your future told.
“And,” she added with a chuckle, “lest you be too much surprised by your fortune, I will say this much: Myrtle Rand will tell you that you have a grandfather who is very old and very rich—”
“But, Florence, I have no grandfather. I—”