Constance Dunlap

by Arthur B. Reeve

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE ABDUCTORS

  "Take care of me--please--please!"

  A slip of a girl, smartly attired in a fur-trimmed dress and a chiclittle feather-tipped hat, hurried up to Constance Dunlap late oneafternoon as she turned the corner below her apartment.

  "It isn't faintness or illness exactly--but--it's all so hazy,"stammered the girl breathlessly. "And I've forgotten who I am. I'veforgotten where I live--and a man has been following me--oh, ever solong."

  The weariness in the tone of the last words caused Constance to lookmore closely at the girl. Plainly she was on the verge of hysterics.Tears were streaming down her pale cheeks and there were dark ringsunder her eyes, suggestive of a haunting fear of something from whichshe fled.

  Constance was astounded for the moment. Was the girl crazy? She hadheard of cases like this, but to meet one so unexpectedly was surelydisconcerting.

  "Who has been following you!" asked Constance gently, looking hastilyover her shoulder and seeing no one.

  "A man," exclaimed the girl, "but I think he has gone now."

  "Can't you think of your name!" urged Constance. "Try."

  "No," cried the girl, "no, I can't, I can't."

  "Or your address?" repeated Constance. "Try--try hard!"

  The girl looked vacantly about.

  "No," she sobbed, "it's all gone--all."

  Puzzled, Constance took her arm and slowly walked her up the streettoward her own apartment in the hope that she might catch sight of somefamiliar face or be able to pull herself together.

  But it was of no use.

  They passed a policeman who eyed them sharply. The mere sight of theblue-coated officer sent a shudder through the already trembling girlon her arm.

  "Don't, don't let them take me to a hospital--don't," pleaded the girlin a hoarse whisper when they had passed the officer.

  "I won't," reassured Constance. "Was that the man who was followingyou?"

  "No--oh, no," sobbed the girl nervously looking back.

  "Who was he, then?" asked Constance eagerly.

  The girl did not answer, but continued to look back wildly from time totime, although there was no doubt that, if he existed at all, the manhad disappeared.

  Suddenly Constance realized that she had on her hands a case ofaphasia, perhaps real, perhaps induced by a drug.

  At any rate, the fear of being sent away to an institution was sostrong in the poor creature that Constance felt intuitively howdisastrous to her might be the result of disregarding the obsession.

  She was in a quandary. What should she do with the girl? To leave heron the street was out of the question. She was now more helpless thanever.

  They had reached the door of the apartment. Gently she led thetrembling girl into her own home.

  But now the question of what to do arose with redoubled force. Shehesitated to call a physician, at least yet, because his first advicewould probably be to send the poor little stranger to the psychopathicward of some hospital.

  Constance's eye happened to rest on the dictionary in her bookcase.Perhaps she might recall the girl's name to her, if she were notshamming, by reading over the list of women's names in the back of thebook.

  It meant many minutes, perhaps hours. But then Constance reflected onwhat might have happened to the girl if she had chanced to appeal tosome one who had not felt a true interest in her. It was worth trying.She would do it.

  Starting with "A," she read slowly.

  "Is your name Abigail?"

  Down through Barbara, Camilla, Deborah, Edith, Faith, she read.

  "Flora?" she asked.

  The girl seemed to apprehend something, appear less blank.

  "Florence?" persisted Constance.

  "Oh, yes," she cried, "that's it--that's my name."

  But as for the last name and the address she was just as hazy as ever.Still, there was now something different about her.

  "Florence--Florence what?" reiterated Constance patiently.

  There was no answer. But with the continued repetition it seemed as ifsome depth in her nature had been stirred. Constance could not helpfeeling that the girl had really found herself.

  She had risen and was facing Constance, both hands pressed to herthrobbing temples as if to keep her head from bursting. Constance hadassisted her off with her coat and hat, and now the sartorial wreck ofher masses of blonde hair was apparent.

  "I suppose," she cried incoherently, "I'm just one more of thethousands of girls who drop out of sight every year."

  Constance listened in amazement. As the spell of her influence seemedto calm the overwrought mind of the girl there succeeded a hardness inher tone that was wholly out of keeping with her youth. There wassomething that breathed of a past where there should have been nothingbut the thought of a future.

  "Tell me why," soothed Constance with an air that invited confidence.

  The girl looked up and again passed her hand over her white foreheadwith its mass of tangled fallen hair. Somehow Constance felt a tinglingsensation of sympathy in her heart. Impulsively she put out her handand took the cold moist hand of the girl.

  "Because," she hesitated, struggling now with re-floodingconsciousness, "because--I don't know. I thought, perhaps--" she added,dropping her eyes, "you could--help me."

  She was speaking rapidly enough now, "I think they have employeddetectives to trace me. One of them is almost up with me. I'm afraid Ican't slip out of the net again. And--I--I won't go back to them. Ican't. I won't."

  "Go back to whom?" queried her friend. "Detectives employed by whom?"

  "My folks," she answered quickly.

  Constance was surprised. Least of all had she expected that.

  "Why won't you go home?" she prompted as the girl seemed about to lapseinto a sort of stolid reticence.

  "Home?" she repeated bitterly. "Home? No one would believe my story. Icouldn't go home, now. They have made it impossible for me to go home.I mean, every newspaper has published my picture. There were headlinesfor days, and only by chance I was not recognized."

  She was sobbing now convulsively. "If they had only let me alone! Imight have gone back, then. But now--after the newspapers and thesearch--never! And yet I am going to have revenge some day. When heleast expects it I am going to tell the truth and--"

  She stopped.

  "And what?" asked Constance.

  "Tell the truth--and then do a cowardly thing. I would--"

  "You would not!" blazed Constance.

  There was no mistaking the meaning.

  "Leave it to me. Trust me. I will help you."

  She pulled the girl down on the divan beside her.

  "Why talk of suicide?" mused Constance. "You can plead this aphasia Ihave just seen. I know lots of newspaper women. We could carry itthrough so that even the doctors would help us. Remember, aphasia willdo for a girl nowadays what nothing else can do."

  "Aphasia!" Florence repeated harshly. "Call it what youlike--weakness--anything. I--I loved that man--not the one who followedme--another. I believed him. But he left me--left me in a place--acrossin Brooklyn. They said I was a fool, that some other fellow, perhapsbetter, with more money, would take care of me. But I left. I got aplace in a factory. Then some one in the factory became suspicious. Ihad saved a little. It took me to Boston.

  "Again some one grew suspicious. I came back here, here--the only placeto hide. I got another position as waitress in the Betsy Ross Tea Room.There I was able to stay until yesterday. But then a man came in. Hehad been there before. He seemed too interested in me, not in a waythat others have been, but in me--my name. Some how I suspected. I puton my hat and coat. I fled. I think he followed me. All night I havewalked the streets and ridden in cars to get away from him. At last--Iappealed to you."

  The girl had sunk back into the soft pillows of the couch beside hernew friend and hid her face. Softly Constance patted and smoothed thewealth of golden hair.

  "You--you poor little girl," she sympathized.<
br />
  Then a film came over her own eyes.

  "New York took me at a critical time in my own life," she said more toherself than to the girl. "She sheltered me, gave me a new start. Whatshe did for me she will do for any other person who really wishes tomake a fresh start in life. I made few acquaintances, no friends.Fortunately, the average New Yorker asks only that his neighbor leavehim alone. No hermit could find better and more complete solitude thanin the heart of this great city."

  Constance looked pityingly at the girl before her.

  "Why can't you tell them," she suggested, "that you wanted to beindependent, that you went away to make your own living?"

  "But--they--my father--is well off. And they have this detective whofollows me. He will find me some day--for the reward--and will tell thetruth."

  "The reward?"

  "Yes--a thousand dollars. Don't you remember reading--"

  The girl stopped short as if to check herself.

  "You--you are Florence Gibbons!" gasped Constance as with a rush therecame over her the recollection of a famous unsolved mystery of severalmonths before.

  The girl did not look up as Constance bent over and put her arms abouther.

  "Who was he?" she asked persuasively.

  "Preston--Lansing Preston," she sobbed bitterly. "Only the other day Iread of his engagement to a girl in Chicago--beautiful, in society.Oh--I could KILL him," she cried, throwing out her arms passionately."Think of it. He--rich, powerful, respected. I--poor, almost crazy--anoutcast."

  Constance did not interfere until the tempest had passed.

  "What name did you give at the tea room?" asked Constance.

  "Viola Cole," answered Florence.

  "Rest here," soothed Constance. "Here at least you are safe. I have anidea. I shall be back soon."

  The Betsy Ross was still open after the rush of tired shoppers andlater of business women to whom this was not only a restaurant but aclub. Constance entered and sat down.

  "Is the manager in?" she asked of the waitress.

  "Mrs. Palmer? No. But, if you care to wait, I think she'll be backdirectly."

  As Constance sat toying absently with some food at one of the snowywhite tables, a man entered. A man in a tea room is an anomaly. For thetea room is a woman's institution, run by women for women. Men enterwith diffidence, and seldom alone. This man was quite evidently lookingfor some one.

  His eye fell on Constance. Her heart gave a leap. It was her old enemy,Drummond, the detective. For a moment he hesitated, then bowed, andcame over to her table.

  "Peculiar places, these tea rooms," observed Drummond.

  Constance was doing some quick thinking. Could this be the detectiveFlorence Gibbons had mentioned?

  "The only thing lacking to make them complete," he rattled on, "is alicense. Now, take those places that have a ladies' bar--that do openlywhat tea rooms do covertly. They don't reckon with the attitude ofwomen. This is New York--not Paris. Such things are years off. I don'tsay they'll not come or that women won't use them--but not by thatname--not yet."

  Constance wondered what his cynical inconsequentialities masked.

  "I think it adds to the interest," she observed, watching himfurtively, "this evasion of the laws."

  Drummond was casting about for something to do and, naturally, to amind like his, a drink was the solution. Evidently, however, there weredegrees of brazenness, even in tea rooms. The Betsy Ross not only wouldnot produce a labeled bottle and an obvious glass but stoutly deniedtheir ability to fill such an order, even whispered.

  "Russian tea?" suggested Drummond cryptically.

  "How will you have it--with Scotch or rye?" asked the waitress.

  "Bourbon," hazarded Drummond.

  When the "Russian tea" arrived it was in a neat little pot with twoothers, the first containing real tea and the second hot water. It wasserved virtuously in tea cups, so opaquely concealed that no one butthe clandestine drinker could know what sort of poison was being served.

  Mrs. Palmer was evidently later than expected. Drummond fidgeted afterthe manner of a man out of his accustomed habitat. And yet he did notseem to be interested really in Constance, or even in Mrs. Palmer. Forafter a few moments, he rose and excused himself.

  "How did HE come here?" Constance asked herself over and over.

  As far as she could reason it out, there could be only one reason.Drummond was clearly up with Florence. Did he also know that Constancewas shielding her?

  The more she thought of it, the more she shuddered at the tactless wayin which the detective would perform the act of "charity" bydiscovering the lost girl--and pocketing the reward.

  If her family only knew, how eagerly they might let her come back inher own way. She looked up the address of Everett Gibbons while she waswaiting, a half-formed plan taking definite shape in her mind.

  What--she did must be done quickly. Here at the tea room at leastFlorence, or rather Viola, was known. Perhaps the best way, after all,was to let her be discovered here. They could not deny that she hadbeen working for them acceptably for some time.

  Half an hour later, Mrs. Palmer, a bustling business woman, came in andthe waitress pointed her out to Constance.

  "Did you have a waitress here named Viola Cole?" began Constance,watching keenly the effect of her inquiry.

  "Yes," replied Mrs. Palmer in a tone of interest that reassuredConstance that, if there were any connection between Drummond'spresence and Mrs. Palmer, it was wholly on his seeking. "But shedisappeared last night. A most peculiar girl--but a splendid worker."

  "She has been ill," Constance hastened to explain. "I am a friend ofhers. I have a business downtown and could not come around untilto-night to tell you that she will be back to-morrow if you will takeher back."

  "Of course I'll take her back. I'm sorry she's ill," and Mrs. Palmerbustled out into the kitchen, not unfeelingly but merely because thatwas her manner.

  Constance paid her check and left the tea room. So far she hadsucceeded. The next thing she had planned was a visit to Mr. Gibbons.That need not take long, for she was not going to tell anything. Heridea was merely to pave the way.

  The Gibbons she found, lived in a large house on one of the numerousside streets from the Park, in a neighborhood that was in factsomething more than merely well-to-do.

  Fortunately she found Everett Gibbons in and was ushered into hisstudy, where he sat poring over some papers and enjoying anafter-dinner cigar.

  "Mr. Gibbons," began Constance, "I believe there is a one thousanddollar reward for news of the whereabouts of your daughter, Florence."

  "Yes," he said in a colorless tone that betrayed the hopelessness ofthe long search. "But we have traced down so many false clues that wehave given up hope. Since the day she went away, we have never beenable to get the slightest trace of her. Still, we welcome outside aid."

  "Of detectives?" she asked.

  "Official and private--paid and volunteer--anybody," he answered. "Imyself have come to the belief that she is dead, for that is the onlyexplanation I can think of for her long silence."

  "She is not dead," replied Constance in a low tone.

  "Not dead?" he repeated eagerly, catching at even such a straw as anunknown woman might cast out. "Then you know--"

  "No," she interrupted positively, "I cannot tell you any more. You mustcall off all other searchers. I will let you know."

  "When?"

  "To-morrow, perhaps the next day. I will call you on the telephone."

  She rose and made a hasty adieu before the man who had been prematurelyaged might overwhelm her with questions and break down her resolutionto carry the thing through as she had seen best.

  Cheerily, Constance turned the key in the lock of her door.

  There was no light and somehow the silence smote on her ominously.

  "Florence!" she called.

  There was no answer.

  Not a sign indicated her presence. There was the divan with the pillowsdisarranged as they had been w
hen she left. The furniture was in thesame position as before. Hastily she went from one room to another.Florence had disappeared!

  She went to the door again. All seemed right there. If any one hadentered, it must have been because he was admitted, for there were nomarks to indicate that the lock had been forced.

  She called up the tea room. Mrs. Palmer was very sympathetic, but therehad been no trace of "Viola Cole" there yet.

  "You will let me know if you get any word?" asked Constance anxiously.

  "Surely," came back Mrs. Palmer's cordial reply.

  A hundred dire possibilities crowded through her mind. Might Florencebe held somewhere as a "white slave"--not by physical force but bycircumstances, ignorant of her rights, afraid to break away again?

  Or was it suicide, as she had threatened? She could not believe it.Nothing could have happened in such a short time to change herresolution about revenge.

  The recollection of all the stories she had read recently crossed hermind. Could it be a case of drugs? The girl had given no evidence ofbeing a "dope" fiend.

  Perhaps some one had entered, after all.

  She thought of the so-called "poisoned needle" cases. Might she nothave been spirited off in that way? Constance had doubted the stories.She knew that almost any doctor would say that it was impossible toinject a narcotic by a sudden jab of a hypodermic syringe. That wasrather a slow, careful and deliberate operation, to be submitted towith patience.

  Yet Florence was gone!

  Suddenly it flashed over Constance that Drummond might not be seekingthe reward primarily, after all. His first object might be shieldingPreston. She recollected that Mr. Gibbons had said nothing aboutDrummond, either one way or the other. And if he were both shieldingPreston and working for the reward, he would care little how muchFlorence suffered. He might be playing both ends to serve himself.

  She rang the elevator bell.

  "Has anybody called at my apartment while I was out?" she asked.

  "Yes'm. A man came here."

  "And you let him up?"

  "I didn't know you were out. You see I had just come on. He said he wasto meet some one at your apartment. And when he pressed the buzzer, thedoor opened, and I ran the elevator down again. I thought it was allright, ma'am."

  "And then what?" inquired Constance breathlessly.

  "Well, in about five minutes my bell rang. I ran the elevator up again,and, waiting, was this man with a girl I had never seen before. Youunderstand--I thought it was all right--he told me he was going to meetsome one."

  "Yes--yes. I understand. Oh, my God, if I had only thought to leaveword not to let her go. How did she look?"

  "Her clothes, you mean, Ma'am?"

  "No--her face, her eyes!"

  "Beggin' your pardon, I thought she was--well, er,--actedqueer--scared--dazed-like."

  "You didn't notice which way they went, I suppose!"

  "No ma'am, I didn't."

  Constance turned back again into her empty apartment, heart-sick. Inspite of all she had planned and done, she was defeated--worse thandefeated. Where was Florence! What might not happen to her! She couldhave sat down and cried. Instead she passed a feverishly restless night.

  All the next day passed, and still not a word. She felt her ownhelplessness. She could not appeal to the police. That might defeat thevery end she sought. She was single-handed. For all she knew, she wasfighting the almost limitless power of brains and money of Preston.Inquiry developed the fact that Preston himself was reported to be inChicago with his fiancee. Time and again she was on the point of makingthe journey to let him know that some one at least was watching him.But, she reflected, if she did that she might miss the one call fromFlorence for help.

  Then she thought bitterly of the false hopes she had raised in thedespairing father of Florence Gibbons. It was maddening.

  Several times during the day Constance dropped into the Betsy Ross,without finding any word.

  Late that night the buzzer on her door sounded. It was Mrs. Palmerherself, with a letter at last, written on rough paper in pencil with atrembling hand.

  Constance almost literally pounced on it.

  "Will you tell the lady who was so kind to me that while she was outseeing you at the tea room, there was a call at her door? I didn't liketo open it, but when I asked who was there, a man said it was thesteam-fitter she had asked to call about the heat.

  "I opened the door. From that moment when I saw his face until I cameto myself here I remember nothing. I would write to her, only I don'tknow where she lives. One of the bell-boys here is kind enough tosmuggle this note out for me addressed to the Betsy Boss.

  "Tell her please, that I am at a place in Brooklyn, I think, calledLustgarten's--she can recognize it because it is at a railroadcrossing--steam railroads, not trolleys or elevateds.

  "I know you think me crazy, Mrs. Palmer, but the other lady can tellyou about it. Oh, it was the same horrible feeling that came over methat night as before. It isn't a dream; it's more like a trance. Itcomes in a second--usually when I am frightened. I suddenly feelnervous and shaky. I can't tell what is going on around me. I lose myhearing. Part of the time it is as though, I had a paralytic stroke ofthe tongue. The next day, perhaps, it is gone. But while it lasts it isterrifying. It's like walking into a new world, with everybody,everything strange about me."

  The note ended with a most pathetic appeal.

  Constance was already nervously putting on her hat.

  "You are going to go there?" asked Mrs. Palmer.

  "If I can locate the place," she answered.

  "Aren't you afraid?" inquired the other.

  Constance did not reply. She ostentatiously slipped a littleivory-handled revolver into her handbag.

  "It's a new one," she explained finally, "like nothing you ever heardof before, I guess. I bought it only the other day after a friend ofmine told me about it."

  Mrs. Palmer was watching her closely.

  "You--you are a wonderful woman," she burst out finally. "It isn't goodbusiness, it isn't good sense."

  Constance stopped short in her preparations for the search. "What arebusiness and sense compared to the--the life of--"

  She checked herself on the very point of revealing the girl's real name.

  "Nothing," replied Mrs. Palmer. "I had already made up my mind to gowith you before I spoke--if you will let me."

  In a moment the two understood each other better than after years ofcasual acquaintance.

  Back and forth through the mazes of streets and car lines of the cityacross the river the two women traveled, asking veiled questions ofevery wearer of a uniform, until at last they found such a place asFlorence had described in her note.

  There, it seemed, had sprung up a little center of vice. Whilereformers were trying to clamp down tight the "lid" in New York, allthe vicious elements were prying it up here. Crushed in one place, theyrose again in another.

  There was the electric sign--"Lustgarten." Even a cursory glance toldthem that it included a saloon on the first floor, with a sort of dancehall and second-rate cabaret. Above that was a hotel. The windows weredarkened, with awnings pulled down, even on what must have been in thedaytime the shady side.

  "Shall we go in? Are you game?" asked Constance of her companion.

  "I haven't gone so far without considering that," replied Mrs. Palmer,somewhat reproachfully.

  Without a word Constance entered the door down the street followed byher companion.

  A negro at the little cubby hole of an office pushed out a register atthem. Constance signed the first names that came into her head, and amoment later they were on their way up to a big double room on thethird floor, led by another, younger negro.

  "Will you send the bell-boy up?" asked Constance as they entered theroom.

  "I'm the bell-boy ma'am," was his disconcerting reply.

  "I mean the other one," replied Constance, hazarding, "the one who ishere in the day time."

  "There ain't no othe
r boy, ma'am. There ain't no--"

  "Could you deliver a note for me at a tea room in New York to-morrow?"interrupted Constance, striking while the iron seemed hot.

  The boy turned around abruptly from his busy occupation of doingsomething useless that would elicit a tip. He quietly shut the door,and wheeled about with his hand still on the knob.

  "Do you want to know what room she's in?" he asked.

  Constance opened her handbag. Mrs. Palmer suppressed a little scream.She had expected that ivory-handled thing to appear. Instead there wasa treasury note of a size that caused the white part of the boy's eyesto expand beyond all the laws of optics.

  "Yes," she said, pressing it into his hand.

  "Forty-two-down the hall, around the turn, on the other side,"whispered the boy. "And for God's sake, ma'am, don't tell nobody I toldyou."

  His shuffle down the hall had scarcely ceased before the two women werestealthily creeping in the opposite direction, looking eagerly at thenumbers.

  Constance had stopped abruptly around the turn. Through a transom ofone of the rooms they could hear voices but could see no light.

  "Well, go back then," growled a gruff voice. "Your family will neverbelieve your story, never believe that you came again and stayed atLustgarten's against your will. Why," the voice taunted with a harshlaugh, "if they knew the truth, they would turn you from the door,instead of offering a reward."

  There was a moment of silence. Then a woman's voice, strangely familiarto Constance, spoke.

  "The truth!" she exclaimed bitterly. "He knew it was a case of a girlwho liked a good time, liked pretty clothes, a ride in an automobile,theaters, excitement, bright lights, night life--a girl with a romanticdisposition in whom all that was repressed at home. He knew it," sherepeated, raising the tone to an almost hysterical pitch, "led me on,made me love him because he could give them all to me. And when I beganto show the strain of the pace-they all show it more than the men--hecast me aside like a squeezed-out lemon."

  As she listened, Constance understood it all now. It was to makeFlorence Gibbons a piece of property, a thing to be traded in,bartered--that was the idea. Discover her--yes; but first to thrust herinto the life if she would not go into it herself--anything todiscredit her testimony beforehand, anything to save the preciousreputation of one man.

  "Well," shouted the other voice menacingly, "do you want to know thetruth? Haven't you read it often enough? Instead of hoping you willreturn, they pray that you are DEAD!"

  He hissed the words out, then added, "They prefer to think that you aredead. Why--damn it!--they turn to that belief for COMFORT!"

  Constance had seized Mrs. Palmer by the arm, and, acting in concert,they threw both their weights against the thin wooden door.

  It yielded with a crash.

  Inside the room was dark.

  Indistinctly Constance could make out two figures, one standing, theother seated in a deep rocker.

  A suppressed exclamation of surprise was followed by a hasty lunge ofthe standing figure toward her.

  Constance reached quickly into her handbag and drew out the littleivory-handled pistol.

  "Bang!" it spat almost into the man's face.

  Choking, sputtering, the man groped a minute blindly, then fell on thefloor and frantically tried to rise again and call out.

  The words seemed to stick in his throat.

  "You--you shot him?" gasped a woman's voice which Constance now knewwas Florence's.

  "With the new German Secret Service gun," answered Constance quietly,keeping it leveled to cow any assistance that might be brought. "Itblinds and stupefies without killing--a bulletless revolver intended tocheck and render harmless the criminal instead of maiming him. Thecartridges contain several chemicals that combine when they areexploded and form a vapor which blinds a man and puts him out. No onewants to kill such a person as this."

  She reached over and switched on the lights.

  The man on the floor was Drummond himself.

  "You will tell your real employer, Mr. Preston," she addedcontemptuously, "that unless he agrees to our story of his elopementwith Florence, marries her, and allows her to start an undefendedaction for divorce, we intend to make use of the new federal MannAct--with a jail sentence--for both of you."

  Drummond looked up sullenly, still blinking and choking.

  "And not a word of this until the suit is filed. Then WE will see thereporters--not he. Understand?"

  "Yes," he muttered, still clutching his throat.

  An hour later Constance was at the telephone in her own apartment.

  "Mr. Gibbons? I must apologize for troubling you at this late, orrather early, hour. But I promised you something which I could notfulfill until now. This is the Mrs. Dunlap who called on you the otherday with a clue to your daughter Florence. I have foundher--yes--working as a waitress in the Betsy Ross Tea Boom. No--not aword to anyone--not even to her mother. No--not a word. You can see herto-morrow--at my apartment. She is going to live with me for a few daysuntil--well--until we get a few little matters straightened out."

  Constance had jammed the receiver back on the hook hastily.

  Florence Gibbons, wild-eyed, trembling, imploring, had flung her armsabout her neck.

  "No--no--no," she cried. "I can't. I won't."

  With a force that was almost masculine, Constance took the girl by bothshoulders.

  "The one thousand dollar reward which comes to me," said Constancedecisively, "will help us--straighten out those few little matters withPreston. Mrs. Palmer can stretch the time which you have worked forher."

  Something of Constance's will seemed to be infused into FlorenceGibbons by force of suggestion.

  "And remember," Constance added in a tense voice, "for anything afteryour elopement--it's aphasia, aphasia, APHASIA!"