He found the kettle on the kitchen table, but there was no sign of

Marguerite. This was the culmination of a succession of "slights"

which she had put on him, and in a rage he walked along the passage,

and yelled up the stairs: "Marguerite!"

There was no reply, and he raced up to her room. It was empty, but

what was more significant, her dresses and the paraphernalia which

usually ornamented her dressing-table had disappeared.

He came down a very thoughtful man.

"She's hopped," he said laconically. "I was always afraid of that."

It was fully an hour before he recovered sufficiently to bring his mind

to a scheme of such fascinating possibilities that even his

step-daughter's flight was momentarily forgotten * * * * * On the following morning Mr. Tibbetts received a visitor.

That gentleman who was, according to the information supplied by Mr.

Webber, addressed in intimate correspondence as "Dear Bones," was

sitting in his most gorgeous private office, wrestling with a letter to

the eminent firm of Timmins and Timmins, yacht agents, on a matter of a

luckless purchase of his.

Then he remembered, leapt up, sprinted to the door, flung it open with

an annoyed: "Come in! What the deuce are you standing out there for?"

Then he stared at his visitor, choked, went very red, choked again, and

fixed his monocle.

"Come in, young miss, come in," he said gruffly. "Jolly old bell's out

of order. Awfully sorry and all that sort of thing. Sit down, won't

you?"

In the outer office there was no visible chair. The excellent Ali

preferred sitting on the floor, and visitors were not encouraged.




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