And this old lady remained in the room until Lionel went away. She was polite enough in her own peculiarly unpleasant way, and she evidently regarded his visit as a call upon herself, a compliment which she appreciated. Tea was served, very weak tea, too, with limp little biscuits; the old lady chattered banal and ill-humoured comments on news of the day, and at last the room began to grow dark, and Lionel took his leave. She rose and held out a feeble old claw. “Come again!” she said, and meant it, he knew. “We don’t see much company.” He went away puzzled and annoyed. Why had Minnie sent for him? She had scarcely spoken a word to him, hadn’t given him a significant glance. He couldn’t understand, couldn’t guess at her object, but he felt quite sure that she had one, and that it was one he didn’t like. III Lucky for him he didn’t know her object, or see the sword suspended over his head. He had enough trouble as it was, poor fellow. When he got home, there was his eagerly expected letter from Frankie. “My dear Lionel,” she wrote, “I see that you have evidently changed your mind, and that you consider our former plan wild and impracticable. No doubt you are right; at any rate I shan’t urge you or try to influence you. I am sure that anyone as prudent and cautious as you will get on in the world. I hope so, sincerely. Please look upon yourself as not bound in any way. “Always your friend, “FRANCES DEFOE.” He knew the answer to that letter--to take the first train, to hurry to her and take her in his arms, to tell her how he had longed for her and missed her. He read her hurt in every word, and it made him desperate. He swore to himself that somewhere and somehow he would get the money to go at once and marry her. Then he didn’t care what happened, even if they had to be separated, even if Frankie stayed with her grandmother for months while he tried to find work. He knew, absolutely _knew_, that there was no time to be lost. He went off at once to Horace, but Horace and Julie had gone on a motor trip for ten days. Then he took a bold step. He telephoned to Minnie. Her pleasant, troubled voice answered the telephone. “Miss Defoe,” he said, “I need five dollars more, badly. Will you----?” “Wait!” she answered, and after a pause, in a lower voice, “At the same corner--at five.” IV The poor idiot had made up his mind to throw himself on Minnie’s mercy, to confide in her, and he did.