“Ah!” He rubbed his small hands together. “We have company, Percy O’Hara, Vincent Stearns, Greta Bronson and Florence Huyler.”
Greta started. How could this little man know their names? She was to wonder still more.
“You have no notion, Mr. Van Zandt,” the little man said, turning to his tall companion, “how famous our company is! A successful newspaper photographer, a very famous violinist, not to speak of the lady violinist and her friend.”
He turned to the astonished group. “Your arrival has saved me the bother of hunting you up—providing now I may count upon your services.”
Never had the two girls found themselves in so strange a position. They had come here with the others to assist—assist in what?
Vincent half rose, then dropped back to his place. Percy O’Hara gripped the arms of his chair. Only Florence appeared at ease, and it was she who at last spoke. “I am sure,” she replied evenly, “that we shall be glad to render any service possible to Doctor Prince.”
Once again Greta stared, this time at Florence. How could Florence know this man?
“Ah!” the little man replied, not denying his identity, “I had hoped so. It is, however, from your musical friends that I expect to secure aid.
“Mr. Van Zandt,” he addressed the other respectfully, “have I your permission to inform them?”
A pained expression passed over the man’s face as he nodded assent.