The telephone was in the hall and, as she waited for the connection, she could hear the sounds of the mother’s misery beating on the house’s rich silence. Then Dixon’s voice brought her faculties into quick order. She wanted to speak to Mrs. Janney herself, at once, it was important. There followed what seemed an endless wait, and then Mrs. Janney. When she had mastered it, her voice came, sharp and incisive: "Hold the wire, I have to speak to Mr. Janney." Another wait, through which, faint as the shadows of sound, Esther could hear the tiny echo of voices, then the jar of an approaching step and a man answered: "Hello, Miss Maitland, this is Ferguson. I’ve orders from Mrs. Janney—Go straight down to the Whitney office, tell them what’s happened and put the thing in their hands. Say nothing to anybody else. Mr. and Mrs. Janney are starting to go in. They’ll be in town as quickly as they can get there and will meet you at the office. Got that straight? All right. Good-by." She cogitated a moment, then called up the Whitney office getting George. She gave him a brief outline of what had occurred and told him she would be there with Mrs. Price within a half hour. Back in the reception room she tried to arouse Suzanne, but the distracted woman did not seem to have sense left to take in anything. At the sound of Esther’s voice her sobs and wails rose hysterical, and the girl, finding it impossible to make her understand, set about preparing her for the drive. Any word of hers appeared to make Suzanne’s state worse, so silently, as if she were dressing a manikin, she pinned the hat to the disordered blonde hair, draped a motor veil over it, composed the rumpled skirts, gathered up her purse and gloves, and finally, an arm crooked round one of Suzanne’s, got her out to the motor. On the long drive downtown almost nothing was said. The roar of the surrounding traffic drowned the sounds of weeping that now and then rose from the veiled figure, which Esther held firm and upright by the pressure of her shoulder. CHAPTER XVI—MOLLY’S STORY That Friday—gee, shall I ever forget it!—opening so quiet and natural and suddenly bang, in the middle of it, the sort of thing you read in the yellow press. It was a holiday for me and I was sitting in the upper hall alcove making a blouse and handy to the extension ’phone. Now and then it would ring and I’d pull it over with a weary sigh and hear a female voice full of cultivation and airs ask if Mrs. Janney’d take a hand at bridge, or a male one want to know what Mr. Janney thought about eighteen holes at golf.