Having exchanged her dress for an easy robe-de-chambre, she sat before the fire plaiting her long dark tresses, her eyes fixed upon the fire, now fast dying away.
She had knowledge of that marvellous secret—the whereabouts of the bewildering treasure of Israel. Yet how would it all end? Why had her father suspicion of spies in their own home? What could he suspect?
She wondered, as she had often wondered, what conclusion her father had formed regarding her mysterious absence from home, and often, in her moments of reflection, she found herself puzzled and pondering regarding her unconsciousness on that never-to-be-forgotten night when she had found herself alone and helpless in the hands of the man who had laughed at her innocence and dismay.
She dare not tell Frank. It was her secret—a dark secret which she had resolved to keep at all hazards—one that he should never know.
“But he is mine again!” she murmured to herself, a sweet smile of contentment playing about her lips. “I have been a fickle girl, I know, but, after all, every girl is entitled to have one good time in her life. I’ve had mine, and I have found Frank. I love him, and he loves me. I know he does. And to-morrow dad will ‘wire’ him, and I shall see him again. Ah! what will he say, I wonder—now that dad has discovered the secret. Dear old dad! He deserves all the kudos he’ll get from the great discovery, for he’s worked hard—worked night and day almost. And the ugly little Doctor? I wonder how he’ll take it? One thing is plain, that we have outwitted that red-faced scoundrel and his friends. We know the truth, while they are still in ignorance.”
For a long time she sat, her pretty head, with its two long plaits secured by blue ribbons, pillowed upon the muslin-covered cushion in the low comfortable armchair, her bare feet thrust into slippers, and upon her sweet countenance an expression of calm content.
The little clock upon her mantelshelf, chiming the half-hour—half-past three—aroused her from her reverie, and she shivered, for the fire had died away and the room had now become chilly. So preoccupied had she been that she had not noticed that the fire was already out.
As she stirred herself, she suddenly recollected that, downstairs in the study, she had left her book in which she was greatly interested, and which she wanted to continue when she awoke in the morning. It was a heavy work of one of the German philosophers which she was studying, for since leaving school she had done a vast amount of reading, especially French and German literature. She was highly educated and cultured, and, unlike the average young girl of our twentieth century, she had not put aside her books with her ankle-skirts.
In her long trailing robe of pale eau-de-nil she crossed the room, and seating herself at her writing-table scribbled a note to her dressmaker, which she had forgotten. Then having put a stamp upon it, she quickly opened her door, crept softly past her father’s room, fearing to wake him, and down the thickly carpeted stairs where her slippered feet fell noiselessly.
She had no candle, but she knew her way about the house quite well in the dark, and also knew where to put her hand upon most of the electric switches.