“He’s alive, you say? Oh, how glad I am! I did not want his death on my soul, though I hate and fear him!” cried Floy. “Give me some water and a towel, miss, and I’ll stanch the blood and see how bad the wound is,” added the detective. She brought the desired things, and as he went to work, he said: “I was educated for a surgeon, so I know how to fix him all right. It’s only a superficial wound through the side of his neck, and I can sew it up all right before he comes to himself.” He brought out a tiny surgical-case from his coat-pocket and sewed up the cut, after which he bandaged it nicely. “Oh, how fortunate that you had those things along!” cried Floy, admiringly. “Yes; they often come in handy in a detective’s business as well as a surgeon’s,” smiled Floyd Landon. “So! he will do nicely, I think, and presently he will revive. Before then we must be out of the way.” CHAPTER XXIX. “OH, HOW BLEST I AM!” CRIED FLOY. Floy looked at him inquiringly, and he said: “Will you come with me to-night to New York and the lady who wants you so much, or shall you go to Mrs. Banks?” “Not to her, though I love her dearly; for, oh! there is danger for me in her vicinity, since it is the home of Otho Maury, also. No; I must seek another hiding-place. Oh, sir, you look at me strangely! You do not understand my trouble, and I can not explain it, for--for--I have a secret!” cried Floy, incoherently. She looked down at Otho’s face in alarm, crying: “Oh, how ghastly he looks! Are you sure he is not really dead?” “He is not dead, and will be able to devise new deviltry in a few weeks from now.” “Then let us hasten away. Who is the lady--the friend you said had employed you to find me?” “Have you no suspicion?” “Not the slightest,” she replied, honestly. “Did you ever meet a Mrs. Beresford in Maury’s store in New York?” Floy blushed divinely at the mention of the name of Beresford and exclaimed: “Yes; I saw her once. She bought real lace handkerchiefs from me, and was so sweet and kind I have loved her memory ever since.” “She admired you very much,” smiled the detective. “She told me I was pretty--that she liked to look at me,” confessed Floy, naïvely. “Yes, that is it; she was charmed with your beauty, Miss Fane, and I applaud her good taste,” said Landon, admiringly; and continued: “Did you know that Mrs. Beresford’s only daughter is a great artist?” “I had not heard anything about her, sir.” “Well, it is true, and Mrs. Beresford saw that your face was the very one Miss Alva wanted as a model for a picture of Cupid that she is painting.” “Oh!” cried Floy, clasping her hands in wondering delight. “So she told Miss Alva about you,” continued the detective, “and they decided to try to secure you for a model; but when they went to the store--it was the day after the accident--you had disappeared. So they sent for me to find you.”