The door opened and Hilda Lightener tripped into the room.  “Hello, dad!” she said.  “Surprise. ...  I want to—­” She stopped to look at her father, and then at Ruth, crouched in her chair.  “What’s the matter, dad?” Hilda asked.  “You haven’t been scaring this little girl?  If you have—­” She paused threateningly.

“Oh, the devil!...  I’ll get out.  You see if you can make her stop it.  Cuddle her, or something.  I’ve done a sweet job of it. ...  Miss Frazer, this is my daughter.  Er—­I’m going away from here.”  And he went, precipitately.

There was a brief silence; then Hilda laid her hand on Ruth’s head.  “What’s dad been doing to you?” she asked.  “Scare you?  His bark’s a heap sight worse than his bite.”

“He—­he’s good,” said Ruth, tearfully.  “He was trying to be good to me. ...  I’m just upset—­that’s all.  I’ll be—­all right in a moment.”  But she was not all right in a moment.  Her sobs increased.  The strain, the anxiety, a sleepless night of suffering—­and the struggle she had undergone to find the answer to Bonbright’s question—­had tried her to the depths of her soul.  Now she gave quite away and, unwillingly enough, sobbed and mumbled on Hilda Lightener’s shoulder, and clung to the larger girl pitifully, as a frightened baby clings to its mother.

Hilda’s face grew sober, her eyes darkened, as, among Ruth’s broken, fragmentary, choking words, she heard the name of Bonbright Foote.  But her arm did not withdraw from about Ruth’s shoulders, nor did the sympathy in her kind voice lessen. ...  Most remarkable of all, she did not give way to a very natural curiosity.  She asked no question.

After a time Ruth grew quieter, calmer.

“I’ll tell you what you need,” said Hilda.  “It’s to get away from here.  My electric’s downstairs.  I’m going to take you away from father.  We’ll drive around a bit, and then I’ll run you home. ...  You’re all aquiver.”

She went out, closing the door after her.  Her father was pacing uneasily up and down the alley between the desks, and she motioned to him.

“She’s better now.  I’m going to take her home. ...  Dad, she was muttering about Bonbright.  What’s he got to do with this?”

“I don’t know, honey.  Nothing—­nothing rotten. ...  It isn’t in him—­ nor her.”

Hilda nodded.

“Bonbright seems to have disappeared,” her father said.

“Disappeared?”

“His father’s hunting for him, anyhow.  Hasn’t been home all night.”

“I don’t blame him,” said Hilda, with a flash in her eyes.  “But what’s this girl got to do with it?”

“I wish you’d find out.  I was trying to—­and that blew up the house.”

“I’ll try nothing of the kind,” she said.  “Of course, if she wants to tell me, and does tell me, I’ll listen. ...  But I won’t tell you.  You run your old factory and keep out of such things.  You just mess them.”