quotation worth
listening to. Three at ninety-five. _That girl's a trump. I will see
more of my lady._" Here he took care to shut the door. "I've been the
rounds, Fellows. Private-detective work and all that. She is the only
puzzler among the group. You'll hear from me again; meanwhile treat the
girl well. Don't spring any traps; leave that to me."

And Fellows, panting with excitement, promised, muttering under his
breath:

"A woman! That's even worse than I thought. But we'll make the old
fellow pay for it. Those securities are ours. I already feel them in my
hand."

The sinister twitch which marred the other's mouth emphasized the
assertion in a way Grace Lee's friends would have trembled to see.

CHAPTER VI

"_If I could tell you his story_"

That evening a young woman and a young man sat on one of the benches in
Central Park. They were holding hands, but modestly and with a clinging
affection. No one appeared in sight; they had the moon-light, the
fragrance of the spring foliage, and their true love all to themselves.
The woman was Grace, the young man was Philip Andrews, a candid-eyed,
whole-hearted fellow whom any girl might be proud to be seen with, much
more to be engaged to. Grace was proud, but she was more than that; her
heart was all involved in her hope--a good heart which he was equally
proud to have won. Yet while love was theirs and the surroundings
breathed peace and joy, they did not look quite happy. A cloud was on
his brow and something like a tear in her eye as she spoke gently but
with rare firmness.

"Philip, we must wait. One love does not put out another. I cannot leave
my old father now. He is too feeble and much too dependent on me.
Philip, you do not know my father. You have seen him, it is true, many,
many times. You have talked with him and even have nursed him at odd
moments, when I had to be out of the room getting supper or supplying
some of his many wants. Yet you do not know him."

"I know that he is intelligent."

"Yes, yes, that is evident. Any one can see that. And you can see, too,
that he is frequently fretful and exacting, as all old people are. But
the qualities he shows me--his strong, melancholy, but devoted nature,
quickened by an unusually unhappy life--that you do not see and cannot,
much as you like him and much as he likes you. Only the child who has
surprised him at odd moments, when he thought himself quite alone,
wringing his hands and weeping ove