"She says she'll be down in a few minutes. Mrs. Vick wants to see you before you go." The two reporters were examining the contents of the scrap-book. The younger of the two was standing at the end of the little marble-topped table, his body screening the book from Courtney's view. There were a number of loose prints lying between the leaves toward the end of the book. Rosabel had neglected to paste them in. The man with the horn-rimmed spectacles ran through them hastily. He stealthily slipped two of these prints up his sleeve. Thane would have been startled could he have seen those prints. They were not pictures of Rosabel Vick, but fair-sized, quite excellent likenesses of himself! The woman returned to say that Mrs. Vick was very much upset by the thought of her daughter's picture appearing in the paper, and could not think of allowing them to use it. The elder man bowed courteously. "I quite understand, Madam. We would not dream of using the picture if it would give pain to the unhappy mother. Please assure her that we respect her wishes. Thank you for your kindness. We must be on our way back to town. Good night, Madam." "These reporters are awful nuisances," remarked Courtney as the front door closed behind the two men. "Always butting in where they're not wanted." "They seemed very nice," observed the woman. "I've never seen one that wasn't a sneak," said he, raising his voice a little. The whiskey was having its effect. Mrs. Vick and Alix entered the room together. The former came straight toward the young man. Her rather heavy face was white and drawn, but her eyes were wide and bright with anxiety. There was no trace of tears. He knew there would be no scene, no hysterics. Lucinda Vick was made of stern, heroic stuff. As he advanced, holding out his hands, he noticed that she was fully dressed. She could be ready at a moment's notice to go to her daughter. "Oh, Courtney!" she cried, and a little spasm of pain convulsed her face for a fleeting second or two. Her voice was husky, tight with strain. He took her cold, trembling hands in his. "It's inconceivable," he cried. "I can't believe it, I won't believe it. You poor, poor thing!" "It's true. She's gone. My little girl is gone. I could curse God." She spoke in a low, emotionless voice. "Why should He have taken her in this way? What have we done to deserve this cruelty? Why couldn't He have let her die in my arms, with her head upon my breast,--where it belongs?" "Don't give up--yet," he stammered, confounded by this amazing exhibition of self-control. "There is a chance,--yes, there is a chance, Mrs. Vick. Don't give up. Be--be brave." She shook her head. "She is dead," came from her stiff lips, and that was all. He laid his arm across her shoulder. "I wish to God it was me instead of her," he cried fervently. "I would take her place--willingly, Mrs. Vick."