When Bettina came in, Vanderpoel, looking up to smile at her in welcome, was struck by the fact that as a background to an entering figure of tall, splendid girlhood in a ball dress it was admirable, throwing up all its whiteness and grace and sweep of line. He was always glad to see Betty. The rich strength of the life radiating from her, the reality and glow of her were good for him and had the power of detaching him from work of which he was tired. She smiled back at him, and, coming forward took her place in a big armchair close to him, her lace-frilled cloak slipping from her shoulders with a soft rustling sound which seemed to convey her intention to stay. “Are you too busy to be interrupted?” she asked, her mellow voice caressing him. “I want to talk to you about something I am going to do.” She put out her hand and laid it on his with a clinging firmness which meant strong feeling. “At least, I am going to do it if you will help me,” she ended. “What is it, Betty?” he inquired, his usual interest in her accentuated by her manner. She laid her other hand on his and he clasped both with his own. “When the Worthingtons sail for England next month,” she explained, “I want to go with them. Mrs. Worthington is very kind and will be good enough to take care of me until I reach London.” Mr. Vanderpoel moved slightly in his chair. Then their eyes met comprehendingly. He saw what hers held. “From there you are going to Stornham Court!” he exclaimed. “To see Rosy,” she answered, leaning a little forward. “To SEE her. “You believe that what has happened has not been her fault?” he said. There was a look in her face which warmed his blood. “I have always been sure that Nigel Anstruthers arranged it.” “Do you think he has been unkind to her?” “I am going to see,” she answered. “Betty,” he said, “tell me all about it.” He knew that this was no suddenly-formed plan, and he knew it would be well worth while to hear the details of its growth. It was so interestingly like her to have remained silent through the process of thinking a thing out, evolving her final idea without having disturbed him by bringing to him any chaotic uncertainties. “It's a sort of confession,” she answered. “Father, I have been thinking about it for years. I said nothing because for so long I knew I was only a child, and a child's judgment might be worth so little. But through all those years I was learning things and gathering evidence. When I was at school, first in one country and then another, I used to tell myself that I was growing up and preparing myself to do a particular thing--to go to rescue Rosy.”