The Maurys did not see that there was anything to do but wait for developments. In all the world there seemed to be no friend to seek for the missing girl. And yet, undreamed of by the Maurys, there was a search going on for Floy. It seemed like a grim mocking of fate that the Beresfords, who would have rejoiced to hear of the death of St. George’s sweetheart, should have put themselves to great expense to trace Florence Fane in her mysterious disappearance. Yet they had done so. Mrs. Beresford was at heart a noble lady, and, where personal pride did not goad her to extremes, a firm friend. She had taken a strong, admiring interest in the pretty young salesgirl whose beauty had charmed her, and whose pride had amused her while it also inspired respect. She would not have owned it to herself, but Floy’s blue eyes had looked straight into her heart and won herself a place there. She had conceived the idea of employing the young girl to act as a model for Alva, and her disappointment was almost as keen as Alva’s when she learned the truth. Each day they both felt the disappointment more keenly, until from the mother came the startling suggestion: “Why not put a private detective on her track?” “Mamma, you seem to feel sure that the girl is alive, while on my side I think that her brain was injured by her terrible fall, and that she left the hospital in a dazed condition and met death in her wanderings.” “I have a strange feeling that the girl is alive and will be found again, dear, so I shall put a detective on the case at once,” returned Mrs. Beresford; and she sent for one in whom she knew she could place confidence, and sent him on the quest. CHAPTER XXII. “OH, MY SON, MY SON!” The clever detective was not the only person who was furtively engaged in an eager search for the missing girl. Otho Maury, although he had written falsely to St. George Beresford that Floy was dead, had learned already, to his dismay, of her strange disappearance. He saw that matters were more complicated than ever. Floy was alive, he felt sure, and he foreboded that she would be turning up at some inopportune moment in Maybelle’s path, and blocking her way to success with Beresford. He guessed readily enough that Floy had become frightened at his persecutions, and had hidden herself away from him, awaiting Beresford’s return. And at the bare thought of Beresford’s possessing the enchanting little beauty, Otho’s jealous blood leaped like fire along his veins, and he swore to himself that he would rather murder Floy with his own hands than to witness her happiness with his splendid, noble rival. Again he held a secret conference with his sister, and she raged with anger when she learned of Floy’s escape from death. “You have botched everything, and I shall lose the man I love, after all!” she cried, stormily; and her brother, unmoved by her blame, replied, coldly: