sked, nor nothing. I cried me eyes out at the
time."

Gyp said quietly:

"No; Betty, I never was. I only thought I was in love." A convulsive
squeeze and creaking, whiffling sounds heralded a fresh outburst. "Don't
cry; we're just there. Think of our darling!"

The cab stopped. Feeling for her little weapon, she got out, and with
her hand slipped firmly under Betty's arm, led the way upstairs. Chilly
shudders ran down her spine--memories of Daphne Wing and Rosek, of that
large woman--what was her name?--of many other faces, of unholy hours
spent up there, in a queer state, never quite present, never comfortable
in soul; memories of late returnings down these wide stairs out to their
cab, of Fiorsen beside her in the darkness, his dim, broad-cheekboned
face moody in the corner or pressed close to hers. Once they had walked
a long way homeward in the dawn, Rosek with them, Fiorsen playing on his
muted violin, to the scandal of the policemen and the cats. Dim, unreal
memories! Grasping Betty's arm more firmly, she rang the bell. When the
man servant, whom she remembered well, opened the door, her lips were so
dry that they could hardly form the words:

"Is Mr. Fiorsen in, Ford?"

"No, ma'am; Mr. Fiorsen and Count Rosek went into the country this
afternoon. I haven't their address at present." She must have turned
white, for she could hear the man saying: "Anything I can get you,
ma'am?"

"When did they start, please?"

"One o'clock, ma'am--by car. Count Rosek was driving himself. I should
say they won't be away long--they just had their bags with them." Gyp
put out her hand helplessly; she heard the servant say in a concerned
voice: "I could let you know the moment they return, ma'am, if you'd
kindly leave me your address."

Giving her card, and murmuring:

"Thank you, Ford; thank you very much," she grasped Betty's arm again
and leaned heavily on 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