It was on for one when it rang again and with a smothered groan—for I was putting on the collar—I jerked it over. _Believe me_, I forgot that blouse! Stiff, like I was turned to stone, I sat there listening, hearing them come, one after another, getting every word of it. When they were through I got up, feeling sort of gone in the middle, and lit out for the stairs. I couldn’t have kept away—Bébita disappeared! "Kidnapped!" I said to myself as I ran along the hall. "Kidnapped! that’s what it is—it’s only poor children that get lost." On the stairs I met Mrs. Janney coming up on the run. It wasn’t the speed that made her breath short; but she was on the job, the grand old Roman, with her mouth as straight as the slit in a post box and her face as hard as if it was cut out of granite. "Go down there," she said, giving a jerk of her head toward the hall below. "Sit there and wait. Something’s happened and you may be useful." I went on down and took a seat. Outside on the balcony I could see Mr. Janney, wandering about with a hunted look. From the telephone closet came Ferguson’s voice telling his chauffeur to bring his car to Grasslands, now, this minute, and enough gasoline for a long run. Then he came out, hooked an armful of coats off the hall rack, and ran past me on to the balcony. He gave the coats to Mr. Janney, who stood holding them, looking after Ferguson wherever he went and quavering questions at him. I don’t think Ferguson answered them, but he pulled one of the coats out of the old man’s arms and put him into it, quick and efficient. When the motor came up he tried to make Mr. Janney get in, but he wouldn’t, standing there, helpless and pitiful, and calling out for Mrs. Janney. "I’m here, Sam," came her voice from the stairs and she scudded by where I was sitting, tying her motor veil over her hat. She seemed to have forgotten me and I followed her out on to the balcony, not knowing what she wanted me to do. As I stood there Ferguson’s big car came shooting up the drive. She climbed quickly into her own motor, waiting at the bottom of the steps, Mr. Janney scrambled in after her and Ferguson threw a rug over them. They were just starting when she looked up and saw me. "Oh," she cried, leaning across the old man, "we’ll want you—you must come." Mr. Janney stared bewildered at her and said: "Why—why should _she_ come?" "Keep quiet, Sam," then over her shoulder to Ferguson as the car began to move, "Bring Mrs. Babbitts, Dick. Take her with you." The car glided off, Mr. Janney’s voice floating back: "But why, why—why do you want _her_?" Ferguson’s motor swung round the oval and came to a halt. The chauffeur jumped out, and, told he wasn’t wanted, disappeared. The young man turned to me, not a smile out of him now. "Come on, get in," he said and then giving a nod at one of the coats lying over a chair, "and bring that with you—it may blow up cold and it’s a long run."