“She’d be glad to see me here,” said Floyd wistfully.  “Sister Ann, what’s the matter with Fledra?”

Miss Shellington would have given much to have been able to answer this question.  Finally her alarm became so strong that she left her breakfast unfinished, and, unknown to Floyd, instituted a systematic search for the girl.  Many were the excuses she made to the waiting young brother as the day lengthened hour by hour.  Again and again he demanded that Fledra be brought to him.  At length the parrying of his questions by Miss Shellington aroused his suspicions, so that he grew nervous and fretful.  Five o’clock came, and yet no tidings of the girl.  Ann’s anxiety had now become distraction; for her brother’s absence threw upon her shoulders the responsibility of the girl’s disappearance, and the care of Floyd should he suffer a relapse.  Her perturbation became so unbearable that she put her pride from her, and sought the aid of Everett Brimbecomb.

She called him on the telephone, and, when his voice answered her clearly over the wire, she felt again all her old desire to be with him; her agitation and uncertainty increased her longing.

“Everett, I’m in dreadful trouble.  Can’t you come over a moment?”

“Of course, dear girl.  I’ll come right away.”

Not many minutes later Ann herself ushered Everett into the drawing-room, where she had spent such happy hours with him.  But, when they were alone, her distrust of him once more took possession of her, and she looked sharply at him as she asked: 

“Everett, do you know where Fledra has gone?”

“Who?  Fledra Vandecar?” His taunt was untimely, and his daring smile changed her distrust to repulsion.

“No; you know whom I mean—­Fledra Cronk.  She’s, not here.  Horace has gone away for a few days, and I’m wild with anxiety.  Will you help me find her, Everett?  She must be here with us until it is decided which way the matter will go.”

They had been standing apart; but the girl’s words drew him closer, and he took her hand in his.  He had truly missed her, and was glad to be in her confidence once more.

“Ann, you’ve never been frank with me in this matter; but I’m going to return good for evil.  I really don’t know where the girl is; still, anything I can do I will.  But I do know that her father has seen her; for he told me about it.  It was—­”

Ann cut him off with a sharp cry: 

“But he’s seen her only the once, Everett—­only that one afternoon when he first came.”

This time Everett answered with heart-rending deliberateness: 

“You’re mistaken, Ann.  Your paragon got out of the window when you were all asleep,” Ann’s sudden pallor disturbed the lawyer only an instant, and, not heeding her clutch on his arm or a pained ejaculation from her, he proceeded, “and went to her father.  He told me this.  Ann, don’t be stupid.  Don’t totter that way.  Sit down, here, child.  No, don’t push me away....  Well, as you please!”