"Yes, and some one you know, too-- Mr. Donald Estey." "Really?" cried Mrs. Thayer. "Jove! After all this time?" The doctor's eyebrows went up. "Yes. And I'm so glad--especially glad for--for he thought once, years ago, that he cared for some one else. And I like to know he's happy--now." "Hm-m," murmured the doctor, with a shrewd smile and a sidelong glance at his sister. "So he's happy--_now_, eh?" "Oh, very! And she's a beautiful girl." "As beautiful as--Betty, say?" The doctor's voice was teasing. A wonderful light came to Helen's face. "You do think she's beautiful, don't you?" she cried, with a smile that told she needed no answer. "She's a dear--in every way," avowed Mrs. Thayer. "And to think of all this coming to Burke Denby, without even a turn of his hand," envied the doctor. "Lucky dog! And to get you _both_! He doesn't deserve it!" "But he isn't going to get us both!" Helen's eyes were twinkling, but her mouth showed suddenly firm lines. The doctor wheeled sharply. "What do you mean? Surely, _now_ you aren't going to--to--" He stopped helplessly. "He's going to get _her_--but not me." "Oh, come, come, Helen, my dear!" protested two dismayed voices. But Helen shook her head decidedly. "Listen. I've got it all planned. You said he wanted a--a sort of private secretary or stenographer, didn't you?" "Why, y-yes." "Well, I'm going to send Betty." "Betty!" "Certainly. She can fill the position--you needn't worry about that. She's eighteen, you know, and she's really very self-reliant and capable. She doesn't understand shorthand, of course; but she can write his letters for him, just the same, and in three or four languages, if he wants her to. She can typewrite. Mr. Reynolds got a typewriter for the girls long ago. And she _loves_ to fuss over old books and curios. She and Gladys have spent days in those old London shops." "A real Denby digger--eh?" smiled the doctor. "Yes. And I've been so glad she was interested--like her father." "But you don't mean you're going to give your daughter up," cried Mrs. Thayer, aghast, "and not go yourself!" "You couldn't! Besides, as if Burke would stand for that," cut in the doctor. "But he isn't going to know she _is_ his daughter," smiled Helen. "Not know she is his daughter!" echoed two voices, in stupefaction. "No--not yet. She'll be his private secretary. That is all. I'm relying on you to--er--apply for the situation for her." Helen's eyes were merry. "Oh, nonsense! This is too absurd for words," spluttered the doctor. "I don't think so." "His own daughter writing his letters for him, and living with him day by day, and he not to know it? Bosh! Sounds like a plot from a shilling shocker!" "Does it? Well, I ought not to mind that, ought I?--you know 'twas a book in the first place that set me to making myself 'swell' and 'grand,' sir." In Helen's eyes was still twinkling mischief.