"That would not put me into possession. Nothing but the return of my father will avail me. And there's a horrible thought always of my not being his real daughter." "There's no doubt in my mind. I have only to recall Katrina's face to know whose child you are. But what will you live on?" Here was a far greater mixup than she had calculated upon. Supposing after all it was only a resemblance, that the child was not Hargreave's, a substitute just to blind the Black Hundred? To keep them away from the true daughter? Her mind grew bewildered over such possibilities. The single and only way to settle all doubts was to make this child a prisoner. If she was Hargreave's true daughter he would come out of his hiding. She heard Florence answering her question: "There is a sum of ten or twelve thousand in the Riverdale bank, under the control of my father's butler. After that is gone, I don't know what will happen to us, Susan and me." "The door of Miss Farlow's will always be open to you, Florence," replied Susan, with love in her eyes. This interesting conversation was interrupted by the advent of Norton. He was always dropping in during the late afternoon hours. Florence liked him for two reasons. One was that Jones trusted him to a certain extent and the other was that ... that she liked him. She finished this sentence in her heart defiantly. To-day he brought her a box of beautiful roses, and at the sight of them the countess smiled faintly. Set the wind in that quarter? She could have laughed. Here was her revenge against this meddler who took no particular notice of her while Florence was in the room. She would encourage him, poor grubbing newspaper writer, with his beggarly pittance! What chance had he of marrying this girl with millions within reach of her hand? The peculiar thing about this was that Norton was entertaining the same thought at the same time: what earthly chance had he? In the second-story window of the house over the way there was a worried man. But when his glasses brought in range the true contents of the box he laughed sardonically. "This watching is getting my goat. I smell a rat every time I see a shadow." He wiped the lenses of his opera glasses and proceeded to roll a cigarette. When the countess and Norton went away Jones stole quietly up to Florence's room and threw up the curtain. Two round points of light flashed from the watcher's window, but the saturnine smile on Jones' lips was not observed. He went to the door, opened it cautiously, a hand to his ear. Then he closed the door, turned back the rug and removed a section of the flooring. Out of this cavity he raised a box. There was lettering on the lid; in fact, the name of its owner, Stanley Hargreave. Jones replaced the flooring, tucked the box under his arm and made his exit.