Hugh held her closely in his arms as he tenderly murmured: “Never mind, darling, your Daddy will always stand by you—no—no matter what happens. Mrs. DeLacy will take you home. Howard and I will have to wait awhile, but we’ll follow you.” “Howard!” Elinor turned like a tigress. “He is to blame for all this—I hate him! Do you understand? I hate him! And I hope he is made to suffer for his crime!” Geraldine DeLacy put her arm protectingly about the girl whose whole body shook with the fury and fervor of the hate with which she denounced the brother who had killed the man she believed she loved. Hugh Benton’s surprised shocked countenance gave proof of his little understanding of the side of his daughter’s character she was showing. But Geraldine only drew her more closely into protecting arms. “Come with me, darling,” she soothed. “You’re all unnerved.” She shook her head protestingly at Hugh Benton as his mouth opened to speak. Without a word, he helped the woman and girl into the waiting cab and turned back toward the apartment entrance. But his head hung low as he walked, and there was a sense of unrealness, a sense of bewilderment, wonder, annoyance at the complexity of life as he went slowly back to the son who had sought only to do as his conscience bade. CHAPTER XV Until the muffled bells of the cathedral clock in the hall slowly and sweetly chimed out the mid-night hour, Marjorie Benton had sat in front of the fire in the library where Griggs had left her—waiting. She had no idea when Howard would come in, but she expected Elinor almost any minute, as she had only gone to the Thurstons for dinner and could not remain away much longer. To Marjorie, whose every nerve was keyed to a snapping tension, the evening had seemed endless. Her eyes were riveted upon the hands of the clock. At twelve-thirty, she bounded from her seat, and fairly flew to the telephone, unable to curb her patience a second longer. Central was obliged to ring a number of times before the Thurston number answered. “What seems to be the trouble?” Marjorie demanded irritably. “That number should answer at once.” “I am ringing them, Madam,” Central replied mechanically. “Such service. You never can get a number when you want one,” Marjorie muttered irritably as she shook the hook. “They do not answer,” the operator drawled. “But I tell you they do answer! They must answer,” Marjorie insisted. “Why, they’re having——” “There’s your party,” Central interrupted. “Go ahead.” “Oh—hello—I’d like to speak to Miss Benton, please.” “There’s no one here by that name,” came the answer curtly. “You must have the wrong number.” “Is this Mrs. Horace Thurston’s residence?” “Yes, Madame—but there isn’t anyone here by the name of Benton. If it’s Hugh Benton’s home you wish, I can give you the number. It——” “No—this is the number I wish. Kindly call Mrs. Thurston to the ’phone.”