Gabrielle saw that, to the outside world, it was a statement by a frantic mother that her child had caught scarlet-fever.  “What could it really mean?” she wondered.

Slowly she read it, and as she did so noticed the curious effect it had upon her father, seated as he was in the deep saddle-bag chair.  His face grew very grave, his thin white hands clenched themselves, and there was an unusually bitter expression about his mouth.

“Eh?” he asked, as though not quite certain of the words.  “Read it again, child, slower.  I—­I have to think.”

She obeyed, wondering if the key to the cryptic message were contained in some conjunction of letters or words.  It seemed as though, in imagination, he was setting it down before him as she pronounced the words.  This was often so.  At times he would have reports repeated to him over and over again.

“Ah!” he gasped at last, drawing a long breath, his hands still tightly clenched, his countenance haggard and drawn.  “I—­I expected that.  And so it has come—­at last!”

“What, dad?” asked the girl in surprise, staring at the crisp typewritten sheet before her.

“Oh, well, nothing child—­nothing,” he answered, bestirring himself.

“But the lady whoever she is, seems terribly concerned about her little boy.  The judgment of Heaven, she calls it.”

“And well she may, Gabrielle,” he answered in a hoarse strained voice.  “Well she may, my dear.  It is a punishment sent upon the wicked.”

“Is the mother wicked, then?” asked the girl in curiosity.

“No, dear,” he urged.  “Don’t try to understand, for you can never do that.  These reports convey to me alone the truth.  They are intended to mislead you, as they mislead other people.”

“Then there is no little boy suffering from scarlet-fever?”

“Yes.  Because it is written there,” was his smiling reply.  “But it only refers to an imaginary child, and, by so doing, places a surprising and alarming truth before me.”

“Is the matter so very serious, dad?” she asked, noticing the curious effect the words had had upon him.

“Serious!” he echoed, leaning forward in his chair.  “Yes,” he answered in a low voice, “it is very serious, child, both to me and to you.”

“I don’t understand you, dad,” she exclaimed, walking to his chair throwing herself upon her knees, and placing her arms around his neck.  “Won’t you be more explicit?  Won’t you tell me the truth?  Surely you can rely upon my secrecy?”

“Yes, child,” he said, groping until his hand fell upon her hair, and then stroking it tenderly; “I trust you.  You keep my affairs from those people who seek to obtain knowledge of them.  Without you, I would be compelled to employ a secretary; but he could be bought, without a doubt.  Most secretaries can.”

“Ford was very trustworthy, was he not?”

“Yes, poor Ford,” he sighed.  “When he died I lost my right hand.  But fortunately you were old enough to take his place.”