She had followed his speech eagerly and with a feeling of keen disappointment at his report that her grandfather and her mother were not in Dorfield.  Could it be true?

Officer O’Gorman took a card from his pocket-book and laid it beside her plate.

“My dear child,” said he in a gentle tone, “I fear your life is destined to be one of trials and perplexities, if not of dreary heartaches.  I have watched over you and studied your character for longer than you know and I have found much in your make-up that is interesting and admirable.  You remind me a good deal of my own Josie—­as good and clever a girl as ever lived.  So I am going to ask you to consider me your friend.  Keep this card and if ever you get into serious difficulty I want you to wire me to come and help you.  If I should happen, at the time, to have duties to prevent my coming, I will send some other reliable person to your assistance.  Will you promise to do this?”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Gorman,” she said.  “I—­I—­your kindness embarrasses me.”

“Don’t allow it to do that.  A detective is a man, you know, much like other men, and I have always held that the better man he is the better detective he is sure to prove.  I’m obliged to do disagreeable things, at times, in the fulfillment of my duty, but I try to spare even the most hardened criminal as much as possible.  So why shouldn’t I be kind to a helpless, unfortunate girl?”

“Am I that?” she asked.

“Perhaps not.  But I fear your grandfather’s fate is destined to cause you unhappiness.  You seem fond of him.”

“He is the best man in all the world!”

O’Gorman looked at the tablecloth rather than to meet her eyes.

“So I will now say good-bye, Miss Burrows, and—­I wish you the happiness you deserve.  You’re just as good a girl as my Josie is.”

With this he rose to his feet and bowed again.  He was a little man and he had a fat nose, but Mary Louise could not help liking him.

She was still afraid of the detective, however, and when he had left the dining room she asked herself if his story could be true, if Gran’pa Jim was not in Dorfield—­if he had never even come to the town, as O’Gorman had stated.

The Conants would know that, of course, and if the detective went away she would be free to go to the Conants for information.  She would find shelter, at least, with these old friends.

As she passed from the dining room into the hotel lobby Mr. O’Gorman was paying his bill and bidding the clerk farewell.  He had no baggage, except such as he might carry in his pocket, but he entered a bus that stood outside and was driven away with a final doff of his hat to the watching girl.

Mary Louise decided in the instant what to do.  Mr. Peter Conant was a lawyer and had an office in one of the big buildings down-town.  She remembered that he always made a point of being in his office at eight o’clock in the morning, and it was nearly eight now.  She would visit Mr. Conant in his office, for this could not possibly endanger the safety of Gran’pa Jim in case the detective’s story proved false, or if an attempt had been made to deceive her.  The man had seemed sincere and for the time being he had actually gone away; but she was suspicious of detectives.