"No; Betty, I never was. I only thought I was in love." Aconvulsive squeeze and creaking, whiffling sounds heralded a fresh outburst. "Don't cry; we're just there. Think of our darling!"The cab stopped. Feeling for her little weapon, she got out, and with her hand slipped firmly under Betty's arm, led the way upstairs. Chilly shudders ran down her spine--memories of Daphne Wing and Rosek, of that large woman--what was her name?--of many other faces, of unholy hours spent up there, in a queer state, never quite present, never comfortable in soul; memories of late returnings down these wide stairs out to their cab, of Fiorsen beside her in the darkness, his dim, broad-cheekboned face moody in the corner or pressed close to hers. Once they had walked a long way homeward in the dawn, Rosek with them, Fiorsen playing on his muted violin, to the scandal of the policemen and the cats. Dim, unreal memories! Grasping Betty's arm more firmly, she rang the bell. When the man servant, whom she remembered well, opened the door, her lips were so dry that they could hardly form the words:
"Is Mr. Fiorsen in, Ford?"
"No, ma'am; Mr. Fiorsen and Count Rosek went into the country this afternoon. I haven't their address at present." She must have turned white, for she could hear the man saying: "Anything I can get you, ma'am?""When did they start, please?"
"One o'clock, ma'am--by car. Count Rosek was driving himself. Ishould say they won't be away long--they just had their bags with them." Gyp put out her hand helplessly; she heard the servant say in a concerned voice: "I could let you know the moment they return, ma'am, if you'd kindly leave me your address."Giving her card, and murmuring:
"Thank you, Ford; thank you very much," she grasped Betty's arm again and leaned heavily on her going down the stairs.
It was real, black fear now. To lose helpless things--children--dogs--and know for certain that one cannot get to them, no matter what they may be suffering! To be pinned down to ignorance and have in her ears the crying of her child--this horror, Gyp suffered now. And nothing to be done! Nothing but to go to bed and wait--hardest of all tasks! Mercifully--thanks to her long day in the open--she fell at last into a dreamless sleep, and when she was called, there was a letter from Fiorsen on the tray with her tea.
"Gyp:
"I am not a baby-stealer like your father. The law gives me the right to my own child. But swear to give up your lover, and the baby shall come back to you at once. If you do not give him up, Iwill take her away out of England. Send me an answer to this post-office, and do not let your father try any tricks upon me.
"GUSTAV FIORSEN."
Beneath was written the address of a West End post-office.
When Gyp had finished reading, she went through some moments of such mental anguish as she had never known, but--just as when Betty first told her of the stealing--her wits and wariness came quickly back. Had he been drinking when he wrote that letter? She could almost fancy that she smelled brandy, but it was so easy to fancy what one wanted to. She read it through again--this time, she felt almost sure that it had been dictated to him. If he had composed the wording himself, he would never have resisted a gibe at the law, or a gibe at himself for thus safeguarding her virtue. It was Rosek's doing. Her anger flamed up anew. Since they used such mean, cruel ways, why need she herself be scrupulous? She sprang out of bed and wrote:
"How COULD you do such a brutal thing? At all events, let the darling have her nurse. It's not like you to let a little child suffer. Betty will be ready to come the minute you send for her.
As for myself, you must give me time to decide. I will let you know within two days.
"GYP."
When she had sent this off, and a telegram to her father at Newmarket, she read Fiorsen's letter once more, and was more than ever certain that it was Rosek's wording. And, suddenly, she thought of Daphne Wing, whom her father had seen coming out of Rosek's house. Through her there might be a way of getting news.
She seemed to see again the girl lying so white and void of hope when robbed by death of her own just-born babe. Yes; surely it was worth trying.
An hour later, her cab stopped before the Wagges' door in Frankland Street. But just as she was about to ring the bell, a voice from behind her said:
"Allow me; I have a key. What may I-- Oh, it's you!" She turned.
Mr. Wagge, in professional habiliments, was standing there. "Come in; come in," he said. "I was wondering whether perhaps we shouldn't be seeing you after what's transpired."Hanging his tall black hat, craped nearly to the crown, on a knob of the mahogany stand, he said huskily:
"I DID think we'd seen the last of that," and opened the dining-room door. "Come in, ma'am. We can put our heads together better in here."In that too well remembered room, the table was laid with a stained white cloth, a cruet-stand, and bottle of Worcestershire sauce.
The little blue bowl was gone, so that nothing now marred the harmony of red and green. Gyp said quickly:
"Doesn't Daph--Daisy live at home, then, now?"The expression on Mr. Wagge's face was singular; suspicion, relief, and a sort of craftiness were blended with that furtive admiration which Gyp seemed always to excite in him.
"Do I understand that you--er--"
"I came to ask if Daisy would do something for me."Mr. Wagge blew his nose.
"You didn't know--" he began again.
"Yes; I dare say she sees my husband, if that's what you mean; and I don't mind--he's nothing to me now."Mr. Wagge's face became further complicated by the sensations of a husband.
"Well," he said, "it's not to be wondered at, perhaps, in the circumstances. I'm sure I always thought--"Gyp interrupted swiftly.
"Please, Mr. Wagge--please! Will you give me Daisy's address?"Mr. Wagge remained a moment in deep thought; then he said, in a gruff, jerky voice:
