"Oh, what’s money!" she wailed. "I’d give all the money I have, I’ve ever had, I ever thought of having, to get my baby back." Larkin was moved. He looked away from that pitiful, quivering face and his voice showed a slight huskiness as he answered: "Well, that’s all right, Mrs. Price—and don’t take it so hard, don’t let your fears get the upper hand. There’s no harm can come to her; it’s to their interest to take care of her. If we do our part cleverly, follow their instructions and keep our heads, you’ll have her back in no time." He stopped, arrested by a sudden thought. "I say ’we,’ but maybe I’m presupposing too much. Was it your intention to ask for my assistance?" She dashed her tears away and leaned forward in eager urgence: "Of course—that’s why I came. And you will give it—you will? The letter says it has to be some one having no ties or interests with the family—some one I could trust. I couldn’t think of any one at first, and then when I remembered you it was like an inspiration. Oh, you must do it—I’ll pay you anything if you will." Larkin’s face satisfied her; she dropped back with a moan of relief. "I’ll undertake it willingly—not only to give you any help I can, but because it will be a good thing for me. Don’t be shocked at my plain speaking, but I want to be frank and straight with you. I’m not referring to pay—we can arrange about that later—it’s work done for the Janney family, successful work. And with your coöperation, Mrs. Price, this is going to be successful. Now let’s get to business." He picked up the letter and glanced over it. "Headed ’Clansmen’ and signed 'S. O. S.’ I’ll copy it, insert my name and address, and have it in to-morrow’s _Daily Record_. Then we’ll see what happens." He smiled at her, reassuring and kindly. There was no response in her tragic face. "It may be days before they answer," she murmured. But he was determined to uphold her fainting spirit. "I think not. They want to end this thing as quickly as they can—get their loot and go. You’ve got to remember that their position is terribly dangerous and at the first sign from us they’ll get busy." She rose, took the letter and put it in her purse: "I hope to Heaven you’re right. It’s so awful to wait." "I don’t think you’ll have to. They’ll see our answer to-morrow morning and I’ll expect a move from them by that evening or the next day. If they communicate with me, I’ll let you know at once, and if you hear, do the same by me. It’s going to be all right. Keep up your courage and remember—not a word or a sign to any one." "Oh, I know," she said, drawing down her veil with limp hands, "you needn’t be afraid I’ll spoil it. You thought me a fool, perhaps, when I first consulted you, and I _was_, bothering about things that didn’t matter—jewels! There isn’t one of us that hasn’t forgotten all about them now. Good-by. No, don’t come out with me. I have a taxi waiting." CHAPTER XXII—SUZANNE FINDS A FRIEND