"Perhaps I am," thought Florence; "at least deeper than you believe." When the countess fluttered down to her limousine--Florence hated the sight of it--and drove away, Florence remembered her letters. And when she came to the one purporting to be from her father, she read it carefully, bent her head in thought, and finally destroyed the missive, absolutely confident that it was only a trap, and not very well conceived at that. Norton had given her plenty of reason for believing all such letters to be forgeries. Her father, if he really wished to see her, would enter the house; he would not write. Ah, when would she see that father of hers, so mysterious, always hovering near, always unseen? It must have been an amusing adventure for the countess. To steal into the summer house and wait there, not knowing if Florence had advised Jones or the reporter. If caught, she had her excuses. Paroff, the confident, however, appeared shortly after. "My child!" whispered the man. And Olga stifled a laugh; but to him it sounded like a sob. "I am worn out," he said. "I am tired of the game of hide and seek." "You will not have to play the game long," thought Olga. "The money is hidden in my office down-town. And we must go there at once. When we return we will pack up and leave for Europe. I've longed to see you so!" "You poor fool! And they sent you to supersede Leo!" she mused. She played out the farce to the very end. She permitted herself to be pinioned and jogged; and for what unnecessary roughness she suffered at the hands of Paroff he would presently pay. He took her straight to the executive chamber of the Black Hundred and pushed her into the room, exclaiming triumphantly: "Here is Hargreave's daughter!" [Illustration: HE TOOK HER STRAIGHT TO THE EXECUTIVE CHAMBER OF THE BLACK HUNDRED] "Indeed!" said Olga, throwing back her veil and standing revealed in her mask. "Olga!" cried Braine, laughing. And that was the inglorious end of the secret agent from Russia. CHAPTER XIV Perhaps the most amusing phase of the secret agent's discomfiture was the fact that neither Jones nor Florence had the least idea what had happened. Florence regretted a hundred times during the evening that she had not gone out to the summer house. It might really have been her father. Her regret grew so deep in her that just before going to bed she confessed to Jones. "You received a letter of that sort and did not show it to me?" said Jones, astonished. "You warned me never to pay any attention to them." "No; I warned you never to act upon them without first consulting me. And we might have made a capture! My child, always show me these things. I will advise you whether to tear them up or not." "Jones, I believe you are going a little too far," said Florence haughtily. "It might have been my father."