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Page 70
"She has been ill," Constance hastened to explain. "I am a friend of
hers. I have a business downtown and could not come around until to-
night to tell you that she will be back to-morrow if you will take
her back."
"Of course I'll take her back. I'm sorry she's ill," and Mrs. Palmer
bustled out into the kitchen, not unfeelingly but merely because
that was her manner.
Constance paid her check and left the tea room. So far she had
succeeded. The next thing she had planned was a visit to Mr.
Gibbons. That need not take long, for she was not going to tell
anything. Her idea was merely to pave the way.
The Gibbons she found, lived in a large house on one of the numerous
side streets from the Park, in a neighborhood that was in fact
something more than merely well-to-do.
Fortunately she found Everett Gibbons in and was ushered into his
study, where he sat poring over some papers and enjoying an after-
dinner cigar.
"Mr. Gibbons," began Constance, "I believe there is a one thousand
dollar reward for news of the whereabouts of your daughter,
Florence."
"Yes," he said in a colorless tone that betrayed the hopelessness of
the long search. "But we have traced down so many false clues that
we have given up hope. Since the day she went away, we have never
been able to get the slightest trace of her. Still, we welcome
outside aid."
"Of detectives?" she asked.
"Official and private--paid and volunteer--anybody," he answered. "I
myself have come to the belief that she is dead, for that is the
only explanation I can think of for her long silence."
"She is not dead," replied Constance in a low tone.
"Not dead?" he repeated eagerly, catching at even such a straw as an
unknown woman might cast out. "Then you know--"
"No," she interrupted positively, "I cannot tell you any more. You
must call off all other searchers. I will let you know."
"When?"
"To-morrow, perhaps the next day. I will call you on the telephone."
She rose and made a hasty adieu before the man who had been
prematurely aged might overwhelm her with questions and break down
her resolution to carry the thing through as she had seen best.
Cheerily, Constance turned the key in the lock of her door.
There was no light and somehow the silence smote on her ominously.
"Florence!" she called.
There was no answer.
Not a sign indicated her presence. There was the divan with the
pillows disarranged as they had been when she left. The furniture
was in the same position as before. Hastily she went from one room
to another. Florence had disappeared!
She went to the door again. All seemed right there. If any one had
entered, it must have been because he was admitted, for there were
no marks to indicate that the lock had been forced.
She called up the tea room. Mrs. Palmer was very sympathetic, but
there had been no trace of "Viola Cole" there yet.
"You will let me know if you get any word?" asked Constance
anxiously.
"Surely," came back Mrs. Palmer's cordial reply.
A hundred dire possibilities crowded through her mind. Might
Florence be held somewhere as a "white slave"--not by physical force
but by circumstances, ignorant of her rights, afraid to break away
again?
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