“Perhaps,” she reflected, “he does not know, or even suspect the truth. Perhaps he thinks that he has put himself in the power of the law, and therefore, even when trying to blackmail me, he is cautious not to let me hold any positive proof of his identity or address, and so writes with a typewriter, and neither dates nor signs his letter, but requires an answer to be addressed to initials at the general post office. I shall not answer the letter at all, even to refuse its terms. I will never suffer myself to be either persuaded or provoked into answering such impertinence. As to my darling little girl—yes, I could almost break my heart for her, but I will not, and neither will she—the wise little woman—break hers for me. Owlet is ‘possessed of common sense,’ to use her own quaint phrase. Besides, I do not believe one word about her being ‘ill, dying, and sure to die unless restored to me.’ Above all, more than all, she is a child in the safe hands of the Lord, and, living or dying, she cannot be lost out of them.” Roma took up the letter again, to tear it into fragments; but on second thought she determined to keep it, and show it to her two venerable friends and supporters—Parson Shaw and Lawyer Merritt. About once a week the old minister came to see her. The first time he came, after the receipt of the typewritten letter, Roma drew it from her pocket and put it in his hands. She watched him until he had read it through and returned it to her, and then she asked: “What do you think of it?” “Oh, the fellow is a cowardly cur—Heaven forgive me for saying it! Think no more of the man or his dastardly letter. As for the child, you must leave her to the Lord. You can do nothing in the case that would not do harm. I have good news for you, Roma,” said the rector, with a beaming smile. “Ah! yes? Well?” “I have secured an assistant—Paul Stone, a young graduate of the Theological College at Alexandria, who has just been ordained—a fervent young Christian, who is very happy in the prospect of going to hard work.” “I am very happy in the prospect of your getting some rest,” replied Miss Fronde. But there was a crisis at hand that must modify all their plans. It was a crisis that no one dreamed of. CHAPTER XVIII CATCHING A TARTAR After Hanson had carried off Owlet in the manner so incoherently announced by Ducky Darling, and more intelligibly related by the hack driver and the railway officials; after he had got her quietly and safely bestowed in the snug compartment he had engaged in the Pullman car, and the train had started, he felt quite satisfied with his work. So far it seemed a complete success. Owlet lay on the short sofa opposite to him, sleeping under the influence of the chloroform he had administered to her at the instant of first seizing her. She was very quiet, almost too quiet, he at length began to fear. He did not wish to run any risks.