"After I left Daisy with you that morning I went directly to New York where I was to be entertained by a Mrs. Oliver whom I had met a number of times in connection with my public work. She had often invited me to be her guest and talk over various matters with her, but I had never been able to arrange a definite date before. I arrived at midnight, and was taken almost at once to my room, seeing none of the family that night except my hostess. "But the next morning at breakfast I was introduced to her two lovely daughters, and a moment later to her husband who had arrived a few moments before on an early train from the West. Perhaps you can imagine my horror when I looked up to greet him, and found that the man to whom Mrs. Oliver was introducing me, calling him 'her husband Mr. Oliver,' was the Mr. Keller from whom your daughter had been rescued a few nights before!" Mary Dunlap had told the end of her story rapidly, conscious that her listener was under a heavy strain, and now she looked up with relief that all was told. But the poor mother had borne all she could. She suddenly drooped and would have fallen if the caller had not put strong arms about her and laid her gently on the couch. "My dear!" she said as she stooped over the poor sufferer and patted her gently. "My dear! Don't feel so terribly about it. I am sure this part of the story should be a relief, for it certainly puts that man in a position where he dare not touch your daughter again!" "But oh, to have my Daisy, my baby, mixed up with a man like that!" wailed the utterly crushed little mother, "It seems as though I never can lift my head again!" "Oh, my dear! That is a very small part of the whole matter. The main thing is that no harm shall come to the child. No one here knows, of course, and he has promised!" But a new voice broke in the room, clear and ringing and cold like a young Nemesis. "What are you doing to my mother? Have you come here to make more trouble for us? Who are you, anyway?" CHAPTER VI THE girl stood in the doorway, her eyes flashing like blue flames, her delicate profile outlined against the rich portier, chin lifted, in scorn, the light catching the glint of the waves in her pretty hair and turning them into gold, the delicate blue of her silk kimono bringing out the pearly tint of her skin, a haughty little patrician, insolent in her loveliness. Mary Dunlap looked at her in pity, and admiration, and a rising wonder. Was this the girl who had melted to tears in her arms but a few nights before, and implored her to protect her? How lovely she was even in her frenzy. She made a picture as she stood there in her rightful background. Poor, misguided infant! What a hard road she had set her feet to travel, and how soon she must come to humiliation.