“It’s too bad!” ejaculated Whitford. “I hope she hasn’t got soused and smashed up her car somewhere.” “I wish Freddy Thomas had never been born!” cried Constance impatiently. “Leila and her father have been having a nasty time over him. And she had cut drinking and was doing fine!” “Is there anything we can do?--that’s the question,” said Whitford, taking a turn across the floor. Bruce was thinking hard. What might Leila do in a fit of depression over her father’s hostility toward Thomas?... “I think maybe----” he began. He did not finish, but with sudden resolution put out his hand to Constance. “Excuse me, won’t you? It’s just possible that I may be able to help.” “Let me go with you,” said Whitford quickly. “No, thanks; Mr. Mills may come back and need assistance. You’d better stay. If I get a clue I’ll call up.” It was a bitter night, the coldest of the year, and he drove his car swiftly, throwing up the windshield and welcoming the rush of cold air. He thought of his drive with Shepherd to the river, and here he was setting forth again in a blind hope of rendering a service to one of Franklin Mills’s children!... On the unlighted highway he had difficulty in finding the gate that opened into the small tract on the bluff above the boathouse where he had taken Leila and Millicent on the summer evening when he had rescued them from the sandbar. Leaving his car at the roadside, he stumbled down the steps that led to the water. He paused when he saw lights in the boathouse and moved cautiously across the veranda that ran around its land side. A vast silence hung upon the place. He opened the door and stood blinking into the room. On a long couch that stretched under the windows lay Leila, in her fur coat, with a rug half drawn over her knees. Her hat had slipped to the floor and beside it lay a silver flask and an empty whisky bottle. He touched her cheek and found it warm; listened for a moment to her deep, uneven breathing, and gathered her up in his arms. He reached the door just as it opened and found himself staring into Franklin Mills’s eyes--eyes in which pain, horror and submission effaced any trace of surprise. “I--I followed your car,” Mills said, as if an explanation of his presence were necessary. “I’m sure--you are very--very kind----” He stepped aside, and Bruce passed out, carrying the relaxed body tenderly. As he felt his way slowly up the icy steps he could hear Mills following. The Mills limousine stood by the gate and the chauffeur jumped out and opened the door. No words were spoken. Mills got into the car slowly, unsteadily, in the manner of a decrepit old man. When he was seated Bruce placed Leila in his arms and drew the carriage robe over them. The chauffeur mounted to his place and snapped off the tonneau lights, and Bruce, not knowing what he did, raised his hand in salute as the heavy machine rolled away. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN I