“It is my own,” she said simply.  “Ma’m’selle is not prepared.”  “But there must be young ladies in your family,” remarked Louise, thoughtfully, for in spite of the stupor she felt from want of sleep the novelty of her position kept her alert in a way.  It is true she was too tired and bewildered to think clearly, but slight details were impressing themselves upon her dimly.  “This room, for instance—­”

“Of course, ma chere, a young lady has lived here.  She has left some odd pieces of wardrobe behind her, at times, in going away.  When you waken we will try to find a house-dress to replace your evening-gown.  Will ma’m’selle indulge in the bath before retiring?”

“Not to-night, Madame Cerise.  I’m too tired for anything but—­sleep!”

Indeed, she had no sooner crawled into the enticing bed than she sank into unconscious forgetfulness.  This was to an extent fortunate.  Louise possessed one of those dispositions cheery and equable under ordinary circumstances, but easily crushed into apathy by any sudden adversity.  She would not suffer so much as a more excitable and nervous girl might do under similar circumstances.

Her sleep, following the severe strain of the night’s adventure, did little to refresh her.  She awoke in broad daylight to hear a cold wind whistling shrilly outside and raindrops beating against the panes.

Madame Cerise had not slept much during the night.  For an hour after Louise retired she sat in her room in deep thought.  Then she went to the telephone and notwithstanding the late hour called up Diana, who had a branch telephone on a table at her bedside.

Miss Von Taer was not asleep.  She had had an exciting night herself.  She answered the old caretaker readily and it did not surprise her to learn that the missing girl had been taken to the East Orange house by the orders of Charlie Mershone.  She enquired how Louise had accepted the situation forced upon her, and was shocked and rendered uncomfortable by the too plainly worded protest of the old Frenchwoman.  Madame Cerise did not hesitate to denounce the abduction as a heartless crime, and in her communication with Diana swore she would protect the innocent girl from harm at the hands of Mershone or anyone else.

“I have ever to your family been loyal and true, Ma’m’selle Diana,” said she, “but I will not become the instrument of an abominable crime at your command or that of your wicked cousin.  I will keep the girl here in safety, if it is your wish; but she will be safe, indeed, as long as Cerise guards her.”

“That’s right, Madame,” stammered Diana, hardly knowing at the moment what to say.  “Be discreet and silent until you hear from me again; guard the girl carefully and see that she is not too unhappy; but for heaven’s sake keep Charlie’s secret until he sees fit to restore Miss Merrick to her friends.  No crime is contemplated; I would not allow such a thing, as you know.  Yet it is none of my affair whatever.  My cousin has compromised me by taking the girl to my house, and no knowledge of the abduction must get abroad if we can help it.  Do you understand me?”