“And Roderick—where is Roderick?” asked Buell Hampton.
Gail’s eyes opened wide—with wonder, then with fear.
“Roderick, Roderick!” she exclaimed in a trembling voice. “Then it was not a dream?”
“What dream?”
“That it was he who carried me out of the hotel building and to the veranda of the house where he laid me on a cot and kind friends bathed my wound.”
“No dream, this. It was Roderick for certain. He followed you on the next train to San Francisco—intending to go straight to the Palace Hotel.”
“Followed me? Why did he follow me?”
“To render you help when your father was hurt—because he loves you—of course, you must have divined how deeply he loves you.”
The color rose slowly to Gail’s face. But there was fear still in her eyes. She pressed her clasped hands to her breast.
“Then where is he now?” she asked in a tense whisper.