"Then she is here," cried Gladys. "It's some stupid mistake in the
office."

"I'll go down to that chap," John threatened, "and if he doesn't
instantly produce Marjorie I'll shoot him."

[Illustration: UNCLE RICHARD'S FACE, AS HE MET JOHN'S EYES, WAS A STUDY.]

"You'll do nothing of the sort," his uncle contradicted, "the child
appealed to me and I am the one to rescue her. I shall interview the
manager. I know him. You may come with me if you like."

Down at the desk they accosted the still-courteous clerk. Uncle Richard
produced his card, and, before he could ask for the manager the clerk
flicked a memorandum out of one pigeon-hole, a key out of another, and
twirled the register on its turn-table almost into the midst of the
white waistcoat.

"The lady has been expecting you for hours, Mr. Underwood," said he.
"Looked for you quite early in the afternoon, so the maid says. Register
here, please. Quite hysterical, she is, they tell me, and the maid was
asking for the doctor--Front! 625!"

Uncle Richard's face, as he met John's eyes, was a study. The
telephone-girl disentangled the receiver from her pompadour so that she
might hear without hindrance the speech which was bursting through the
swelling buttons of the white waistcoat and making the white whiskers
quiver.

"I know nothing whatever about _any_ lady in _any_ of your rooms," he