her going down the stairs.

It was real, black fear now. To lose helpless
things--children--dogs--and know for certain that one cannot get to them,
no matter what they may be suffering! To be pinned down to ignorance and
have in her ears the crying of her child--this horror, Gyp suffered now.
And nothing to be done! Nothing but to go to bed and wait--hardest of
all tasks! Mercifully--thanks to her long day in the open--she fell at
last into a dreamless sleep, and when she was called, there was a letter
from Fiorsen on the tray with her tea.

"Gyp:

"I am not a baby-stealer like your father. The law gives me the right to
my own child. But swear to give up your lover, and the baby shall come
back to you at once. If you do not give him up, I will take her away out
of England. Send me an answer to this post-office, and do not let your
father try any tricks upon me.

"GUSTAV FIORSEN."

Beneath was written the address of a West End post-office.

When Gyp had finished reading, she went through some moments of such
mental anguish as she had never known, but--just as when Betty first told
her of the stealing--her wits and wariness came quickly back. Had he
been drinking when he wrote that letter? She could almost fancy that she
smelled brandy, but it was so easy to fancy what one wanted to. She read
it through again--this time, she felt almost sure that it had been
dictated to him. If he had composed the wording himself, he would never
have resisted a gibe at the law, or a gibe at himself for thus
safeguarding her virtue. It was Rosek's doing. Her anger flamed up
anew. Since they used such mean, cruel ways, why need she herself be
scrupulous? She sprang out of bed and wrote:

"How COULD you do such a brutal thing? At all events, let the darling
have her nurse. It's not like you to let a little child suffer. Betty
will be ready to come the minute you send for her. As for myself, you
must give me time to decide. I will let you know within two days.

"GYP."

When she had sent this off, and a telegram to her father at Newmarket,
she read Fiorsen's letter once more, and was more than ever certain that
it was Rosek's wording. And, suddenly, she thought of Daphne Wing, whom
her father had seen coming out of Rosek's house. Through her there might
be a way of getting news. She seemed to see again the girl lying so white
and void of hope when robbed by death of her own just-born babe. Yes;
surely it was w