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Page 68
"Aphasia!" Florence repeated harshly. "Call it what you like--
weakness--anything. I--I loved that man--not the one who followed
me--another. I believed him. But he left me--left me in a place--
across in Brooklyn. They said I was a fool, that some other fellow,
perhaps better, with more money, would take care of me. But I left.
I got a place in a factory. Then some one in the factory became
suspicious. I had saved a little. It took me to Boston.
"Again some one grew suspicious. I came back here, here--the only
place to hide. I got another position as waitress in the Betsy Ross
Tea Room. There I was able to stay until yesterday. But then a man
came in. He had been there before. He seemed too interested in me,
not in a way that others have been, but in me--my name. Some how I
suspected. I put on my hat and coat. I fled. I think he followed me.
All night I have walked the streets and ridden in cars to get away
from him. At last--I appealed to you."
The girl had sunk back into the soft pillows of the couch beside her
new friend and hid her face. Softly Constance patted and smoothed
the wealth of golden hair.
"You--you poor little girl," she sympathized.
Then a film came over her own eyes.
"New York took me at a critical time in my own life," she said more
to herself than to the girl. "She sheltered me, gave me a new start.
What she did for me she will do for any other person who really
wishes to make a fresh start in life. I made few acquaintances, no
friends. Fortunately, the average New Yorker asks only that his
neighbor leave him alone. No hermit could find better and more
complete solitude than in the heart of this great city."
Constance looked pityingly at the girl before her.
"Why can't you tell them," she suggested, "that you wanted to be
independent, that you went away to make your own living?"
"But--they--my father--is well off. And they have this detective who
follows me. He will find me some day--for the reward--and will tell
the truth."
"The reward?"
"Yes--a thousand dollars. Don't you remember reading--"
The girl stopped short as if to check herself.
"You--you are Florence Gibbons!" gasped Constance as with a rush
there came over her the recollection of a famous unsolved mystery of
several months before.
The girl did not look up as Constance bent over and put her arms
about her.
"Who was he?" she asked persuasively.
"Preston--Lansing Preston," she sobbed bitterly. "Only the other day
I read of his engagement to a girl in Chicago--beautiful, in
society. Oh--I could KILL him," she cried, throwing out her arms
passionately. "Think of it. He--rich, powerful, respected. I--poor,
almost crazy--an outcast."
Constance did not interfere until the tempest had passed.
"What name did you give at the tea room?" asked Constance.
"Viola Cole," answered Florence.
"Rest here," soothed Constance. "Here at least you are safe. I have
an idea. I shall be back soon."
The Betsy Ross was still open after the rush of tired shoppers and
later of business women to whom this was not only a restaurant but a
club. Constance entered and sat down.
"Is the manager in?" she asked of the waitress.
"Mrs. Palmer? No. But, if you care to wait, I think she'll be back
directly."
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