had gone to her room; she spent the greater part of her time there now. Her mother sighed.
"She's gone," she declared. "Just when I need her most, of course. I can't see what has got into her for the last few days. She was so interested in the Chapter. Even more than I, I began to think. And yet, at the committee meeting this afternoon--the most important meeting we've had; when we were counting the votes which we can be sure of and those that are doubtful, she scarcely said a word. Just sat there and moped. I don't know what is the matter with her."
Daniel nodded. "I think I do," he said. "It's John. Somethin's the matter between her and John. If he had only stayed here! If he would only come back!"
"Then for mercy sakes get him back! Telegraph him. You said you were going to."
Captain Dan rose. "I will," he declared. "I'll do it right now, this minute. Not till I see you to your tea, Serena," he added, hastily. "I'll tell Zuba about that first, of course."
He sent the telegram within the hour. It was an inquiry concerning Mr. Doane's whereabouts, his employer's health, how he was getting on, and when he--John--was to return to Scarford. The answer arrived, via telephone, about eight that evening. It was a surprising answer.
"Doane gone to San Francisco on business of the firm," it said. "Left at midnight yesterday."
It was signed by the senior partner. Serena had gone out, of course; she was scarcely ever in now, but Gertrude, having finished dinner, was in her room as usual. Her father hurried up the stairs.
"Gertie," he cried, entering without knocking, "Gertie, what do you suppose I've just found out? It's the most astonishing news. John is--he has--Why, you'd never guess!"
Gertrude, who was sitting in the rocking chair by the window, showed her first sign of interest. At the mention of the name she turned quickly.
"What?" she cried, in a startled voice. "What? Is it--is it bad news? He isn't--isn't--"
"No, no! No, no! He's all right. Don't look like that, you scare me. John's all right; that is, I suppose he is. But he--Here! read it yourself."
Gertrude took the paper upon which he had written the message. She read the latter through; read it and reread it. Then she turned to her father.
"But I can't understand," she faltered. "I can't--I can't understand. He didn't send this himself. He has gone to San Francisco; but--but this is signed by someone else. What does it mean?"
Daniel was frightened. It was time to explain, and yet, considering his daughter's look and manner, he was afraid to explain.
"You see," he stammered, "well, you see, Gertie, that's an answer, that is. John didn't send it, he'd gone. But, I presume likely they thought my telegram ought to be answered, so--"
Gertrude interrupted. "Your telegram?" she repeated. "YOUR telegram? What telegram?"
"Why, the telegram I sent to John. I knew you hadn't heard from him, and I thought probably--"
"Wait--wait a minute. Did YOU send a telegram to--to him?"
"Yes; sure I did. I--"
"What did you say?"
"I said--why, I said that you--we, I mean--was wonderin' about him and--and missin' him and when was he comin' back here. That's about what I said. I wrote it in a hurry and I don't remember exactly. That's about it, anyhow. Why, what's the matter?"
Gertrude had risen.
"You said that!" she cried. "You--without a word to me--said--you begged him to come back! Begged him! on your knees! to--to--"
"No, no! I never got on my knees. What would I do a fool thing like that for, when I was sendin' a telegram? I just asked--"
"You just asked! You said that I--_I_--And this was your answer! THIS!"
She dashed the message to the floor, covered her face with her hands and threw herself upon the bed. Daniel, aghast and alarmed, would have raised her but she pushed him away.
"Oh!" she cried. "The shame of it! Don't touch me! Please don't touch me!"
"But, Gertie--what on earth?"
"Don't touch me. Please don't touch me. Just go away, Daddy. Go and leave me. I mustn't talk to you now. If I do, I shall say--Please go. I want to be alone."
Daniel went. That he had made another blunder was plain enough, but just now he was too hurt and indignant to care a great deal.
"All right," he said shortly; "I'm goin'. You needn't worry about that. That's about all the orders I get nowadays--to go away. I ought to be used to it, by this time. I'm a fool, that's what I am, an old worn-out, useless fool."
He slammed the door and descended the stairs. He had been in his accustomed refuge, the library, for perhaps twenty minutes, when the bell rang. He waited for Hapgood to answer the ring and then, suddenly remembering that the butler had departed, answered it himself.
Mr. Monty Holway smiled greeting from the steps.
"Good evening, Captain Dott," he said. "Is Miss Dott in?"
Daniel hesitated. "Yes," he said, "she's in, but--"
"May I see her? Will you be good enough to give her my card?"
The captain took the card.
"Ye-es," he said, "I'll give it to her, but--but--Well, you see, she ain't feelin' very well this evenin' and I don't know as she'll want to see anybody."
Gertrude herself called from the head of the stairs.
"Who is it, Daddy?" she asked. "Someone for me?"
"It's--er--Mr. Holway."
"Oh, is it!" The tone was one of delighted surprise. "Ask him to come in, Daddy. I'll be right down."
She came almost immediately. She greeted the caller with outstretched hand.
"I'm so glad to see you, Mr. Holway," she said. "I was lonely. It was nice of you to come."
She was pale, and the dark circles under her eyes were more apparent than ever, but the eyes themselves were shining brightly. She was gay and, for her, extremely vivacious. Mr. Holway looked gratified and happy. Captain Dan looked astonished and bewildered.
CHAPTER XII
The bewilderment and astonishment remained with the captain for some time, just as his daughter's apparent light heartedness remained with her. Holway's call was longer than usual, lasting until Serena, escorted by Mr. Hungerford, returned from Mrs. Black's, where they had been discussing the all-important election. Hungerford and his friend greeted each other with a marked lack of warmth; in fact, they scarcely spoke. Serena was too tired to talk, but Gertrude talked enough for all. She chatted and laughed with almost feverish gaiety until the caller, after many false starts and with evident reluctance, finally tore himself away. Then her manner changed, she was silent and thoughtful and, soon afterward, said goodnight and went up to her room.
Captain Dan forebore to trouble his wife with the news of the telegram announcing John Doane's departure for the West, and the reception of that news by Gertrude. After hearing Serena's complaints of her "nerves" and weariness, he decided that there was trouble sufficient for that night. But the next morning he spoke of it. Serena was surprised, of course, and worried likewise.
"You're right, Daniel," she said, "I am afraid you're right. She and John must have had some disagreement. I suppose it is only a lover's quarrel--young engaged people are always having foolish quarrels--and they always get over them and make up again. But, oh, dear! why did they quarrel just now? Haven't I got enough on my mind without fretting about them? Well, I'll