“But how are we to reach him!  We are absolutely in the dark.”

“If I could go to Detroit, I might strike some clew; but I cannot leave the judge.  Mr. Black, he told me this morning when I carried in his breakfast that he should see no one and go nowhere till I brought him word that Oliver was in the house.  The hermit life has begun again.  What shall we do?  Advise me in this emergency, for I feel as helpless as a child,—­as a lost child.”

They were standing far apart in the little front parlour, and he gave no evidence of wishing to lessen the space between them, but he gave her a look as she said this, which, as she thought it over afterwards, held in its kindly flame something which had never shone upon her before, whether as maid, wife or widow.  But, while she noticed it, she did not dwell upon it now, only upon the words which followed it.

“You say you cannot go to Detroit.  Shall I go?”

“Mr. Black!”

“Court is adjourned.  I know of nothing more important than Judge Ostrander’s peace of mind—–­unless it is yours.  I will go if you say so.”

“Will it avail?  Let me think.  I knew him well, and yet not well enough to know where he would be most likely to go under impulse.”

“There is some one who knows him better than you do.”

“His father?”

“No.”

“Reuther?  Oh, she mustn’t be told—­”

“Yes, she must.  She’s our one adviser.  Go for her—­or send me.”

“It won’t be necessary.  There’s her ring at the gate.  But oh, Mr. Black, think again before you trouble this fragile child of mine with doubts and questions which make her mother tremble.”

“Has she shown the greater weakness yet?”

“No, but—­”

“She has sources of strength which you lack.  She believes absolutely in Oliver’s integrity.  It will carry her through.”

“Please let her in, Mr. Black.  I will wait here while you tell her.”

Mr. Black hurried from the room.  When his form became visible on the walk without, Deborah watched him from where she stood far back in the room.  Why?  Was this swelling of her impetuous heart in the midst of such suspense an instinct of thankfulness?  A staff had been put in her hand, rough to the touch, but firm under pressure, and she needed such a staff.  Yes, it was thankfulness.

But she forgot gratitude and every lesser emotion in watching Reuther’s expression as the two came up the path.  The child was radiant, and the mother, thus prepared, was not surprised when the young girl, running into her arms, burst out with the glad cry: 

“Oliver is no longer in Detroit, but he’s wanted here, and Mr. Black and I are going to find him.  I think I know where to look.  Get me ready, mother dear; we are going to-night.”

“You are going to-night?” This was said after the first moment of ebullition had past.  “Where, Reuther?  You have not been corresponding with Oliver.  How should you know where to look for him?”