At the entrance of the great building which housed the Whitney office the two motors came to a halt. Ferguson went in with the others saying he would see if he could be of any use, and if he was not wanted would return to the street level and wait. In the elevator Mr. Janney, who had been informed en route of Molly's real status, eyed her morosely, but when the car stopped forgot everything but the urgencies of the moment, and crowded out, tremulous and stumbling, on his wife's heels.

They were met by Wilbur Whitney who in a large efficient way, distributed them:—Ferguson was sent back to the street to wait, Molly waved to a chair in the hall, and the old people conducted up the passage to his private office. In a room opening from it Suzanne lay stretched on a sofa, restoratives and stimulants at hand, and a girl stenographer to fan her. She had revolted against the presence of Esther, who had been removed from her sight and shut in the sanctum of a junior partner.

Mrs. Janney went in to see her and the old man fell upon Whitney. It was Price's doing—they were certain of it, his wife had said so at once. He was bound to get back at them some way, he'd said he would—he'd left Grasslands swearing vengeance, and had been only waiting his opportunity. The lawyer nodded in understanding agreement and, Mrs. Janney returning, they drew up to the table and conferred in low voices.

What Whitney said confirmed the Janneys' belief. He told of his interview with Price; the man's anger and threats. Nevertheless he was of the opinion that the plot to kidnap the child had not been undertaken in sudden passion, but had probably been for some time germinating in Chapman's mind. The news of BÉbita's loss, telephoned to the office by Miss Maitland, while it had shocked, had not altogether surprised him, though he had hardly thought the young man's desire to get square would have carried him to such lengths. Immediately after Esther's communication, George had telephoned to Price's office receiving the answer that he was not there but could probably be found at the Hartleys' at Cedar Brook. From the Hartleys they had learned that Mr. Price was in town, and had sent word that morning he would not come out this week-end.

There were other circumstances which the lawyer said pointed to Price. These they could hear from Mrs. Babbitts who had made some important discoveries. He rose to send for her, but Mrs. Janney stayed him with a gesture—before they went into that she would like to see Miss Maitland and hear from her exactly what had occurred. Mr. Whitney, suavely agreeable, sent a summons for Esther, then softly closed the door into the room where Suzanne lay.

"Mrs. Price is very bitter against her," he said in explanation.

Mrs. Janney, too wrought up for polite hypocrisies, said brusquely:

"Oh, that's exactly like Suzanne. She has no balance at all. Of course we can't blame Miss Maitland—it's not her fault."

Mr. Whitney dropped back into his revolving desk chair and swung it toward her with a lurch of his body:

"She tells a very clear story—extremely clear. I'll let you get your own impression of it and then we'll have a talk with Mrs. Babbitts and you can see—"

A knock on the door interrupted him; in answer to his "Come in," Esther entered. She halted a moment on the threshold, her eyes touching the faces of her employers questioningly, as if she was not sure of her reception. But Mrs. Janney's quick, "Oh, Miss Maitland, I want to see you," brought her across the sill. Though she looked harassed and distressed, her manner showed a restrained composure. She took a chair facing them, meeting their glances with a steady directness. Mrs. Janney's demand for information was promptly answered; indeed her narrative was so devoid of unnecessary detail, so confined to essentials, that it suggested something gone over and put in readiness for the telling.

She had taken BÉbita to the dressmaker and the oculist, the child accompanying her into both places. At the third stop, Justin's, she had persuaded BÉbita to stay in the taxi. She had left it at the curb and had not been more than ten minutes in the store. When she came out it was gone. She had spent some time looking for it, searched up and down the street, and, though she was frightened, she could not believe anything had happened. Her idea had been that BÉbita, tired of waiting or wanting to play a joke on her, had prevailed on the driver to return to the Fifth Avenue house. She had hailed a cab and gone back there and it was not till she saw Mrs. Price that she realized the real extent of the calamity. Mrs. Price had been utterly overwhelmed, and, not knowing what else to do, she had called up Grasslands for instructions.

Mr. Janney, who had been twisting and turning on his chair, burst out with:

"The man—the driver—did you notice him?"

She lifted her hands and dropped them in her lap.

"Oh, Mr. Janney, of course I didn't. Does any one ever look at those men? He never got off his seat, opened the door by stretching his arm round from the front. I have a sort of vague memory of his face when I called him off the stand, and I think—but I can't be sure—that he wore goggles."

"It's needless to ask if you remember the number," Mrs. Janney said.

The girl answered with a hopeless shake of the head.

"You say you ran about looking for the taxi"—it was Mr. Janney again—"Why did you waste that time?"

"Mr. Janney," she leaned toward him insistent, but with patience for his afflicted state, "I thought it had gone somewhere farther along. You know how they won't let the vehicles stand in Fifth Avenue. I supposed it was down the block or round the corner on a side street. I asked the doorman but he hadn't noticed. I looked in every direction and even when I finally gave up and went after her I hadn't an idea that she'd been stolen."

"Time lost—all that time lost!" wailed the old man and began to cry.

"Come, come, Mr. Janney," said Whitney, "don't despond. It's not as bad as all that, and I'm pretty confident we'll have her back all right before very long."

Mr. Janney, with his face in his handkerchief, emitted sounds that no one could understand. His wife silenced him with a peremptory, "Be quiet, Sam," and returned to Miss Maitland:

"You say you dissuaded her from going into Justin's. Why did you do that?"

For the first time the girl lost her even poise. As she answered her voice was unsteady: "We were so pressed for time and I knew I could get through much quicker without her. That's why I did it—begged her to stay in the taxi and she said she would,"—she stopped, biting on her under lip, evidently unable to go on.

There was a moment's silence broken by Mrs. Janney's voice low and grim:

"The man heard you and knew that was his chance."

Miss Maitland, her eyes down, the bitten lip showing red against its fellow, said huskily:

"You must blame me—you can't help it—but I'd rather have died than had such a thing happen."

Mr. Janney began to give forth inarticulate sounds again and his wife said with a sort of dreary resignation:

"Oh, I don't blame you, Miss Maitland. Nobody does. Mrs. Price is not responsible; she doesn't know what she's saying."

"Of course, of course," came in Whitney's deep, bland voice, "we all understand Mrs. Price's feelings—quite natural under the circumstances. And Miss Maitland's too." He rose and pressed a bell near the door. "Now if you've heard all you want I'll call in George and we'll talk this over. And Miss Maitland," he turned to her, urbanely kind and courteous, "could I trouble you to go back to Mr. Quincy's office; just for a little while? We won't keep you waiting very long this time."

A very dapper young man had answered the summons and under his escort Esther withdrew. Whitney went to a third door connecting with his son's rooms, opened it and said in a low voice:

"George, go and get Molly. We're ready for her now."

Coming back, he stood for a moment by the desk, and swept the faces of his clients with a meaning look:

"What you're going to hear from Mrs. Babbitts will be something of a shock. She's unearthed several rather startling facts that in my opinion bear on this present event and what led up to it. It's a peculiar situation and involves not only Price but Miss Maitland."

Mrs. Janney stared:

"Miss Maitland and Chapman! What sort of a situation?"

"At this stage I'll simply say mysterious. But I'm afraid, my dear friend, that your confidence in the young woman has been misplaced. However, before I go any further I'll let you hear what Mrs. Babbitts has to say and draw your own conclusions."

What Mrs. Babbitts had to say came not as one shock but as a series. Mrs. Janney could not at first believe it; she had to be shown the notes of the telephone message, and dropped them in her lap, staring from her husband to Wilbur Whitney in aghast question. Mr. Janney seemed stunned, shrunk in his clothes like a turtle in its shell. It was not until the lawyer, alluding to the loss of the jewels, mentioned Miss Maitland's possible participation either as the actual thief or as an accomplice, that he displayed a suddenly vitalized interest. His body stretched forward, and his neck craned up from its collar gave him more than ever the appearance of a turtle reaching out of its shell, his voice coming with a stammering urgency:

"But—but—no one can be sure. We mustn't be too hasty. We can't condemn the girl without sufficient evidence. Some one else may have been there and—"

Mrs. Janney shut him off with an exasperated impatience:

"Oh, Sam, don't go back over all that. I don't care who took them; I don't care if I never see them again. It's only the child that matters." Then to Whitney the inconsequential disposed of, "We must make a move at once, but we must do it quietly without anything getting into the papers."

Whitney nodded:

"That's my idea."

"What are you going to do—go directly to him?"

"No, not yet. Our first step will be made as you suggest, very quietly. We're going to keep the matter out of the papers and away from the police. Keep it to ourselves—do it ourselves. And I think—I don't want to raise any false hopes—but I think we can lay our hands on BÉbita to-night."

"How—where?" Mr. Janney's head was thrust forward, his blurred eyes alight.

"If you don't mind, I'm not going to tell you. I'm going to ask you to leave it to me and let me see if my surmises are correct. If Chapman has her where I think he has, I'll give her over to you by ten o'clock. If I'm mistaken it will only mean a short postponement. He can't keep her and he knows it."

"The blackguard!" groaned the old man in helpless wrath.

Mrs. Janney wasted neither time nor energy in futile passion. She attacked another side of the situation.

"What are we to do with Miss Maitland? You can't arrest her."

"Certainly not. She's a very important person and we must have her under our eye. You must treat her as if you entirely exonerated her from all blame—maintain the attitude you took just now when talking with her. If my immediate plan should fail our best chance of getting BÉbita without publicity and an ugly scandal will be through her. She must have no hint of what we think, must believe herself unsuspected, and free to come and go as she pleases."

"You mean she's to stay on with us?" Mr. Janney's voice was high with indignant protest.

"Exactly—she remains the trusted employee with whose painful position you sympathize. It won't be difficult, for you won't see much of her. You'll naturally stay here in town till BÉbita is found. What I intend to do with her is to send her back to Grasslands with a competent jailer—" he paused and pointed where Molly sat, silent and almost forgotten.

For a moment the Janneys eyed her, questioning and dubious, then Mrs. Janney voiced their mutual thought:

"Is Mrs. Babbitts, alone, a sufficient guard?"

The lawyer smiled.

"Quite. Miss Maitland doesn't want to run away. She knows too much for that. No position could be better for our purpose than to leave her—apparently unsuspected—alone in that big house. She will be confident, possibly take chances." He turned on Molly, glowering at her from under his overhanging brows. "The safest and quickest means of communication with Grasslands, when the family is in town and the servants ignorant of the situation, would be the telephone."

That ended the conference. Mrs. Janney went to get Suzanne and Molly received her final instructions. She was to return to Grasslands with Miss Maitland, Ferguson could take them in his motor. She was to sit in the back seat with the lady and casually drop the information that she had come to town in answer to a wire from the Whitney office. She might have seen suspicious characters lurking about the grounds or in the woods. On no account was she to let her companion guess that Price was suspected, and any remarks which might place the young woman more completely at her ease, allay all sense of danger, would be valuable.

They left the room and went into the entrance hall where Esther, and presently Mrs. Janney, joined them. Whitney struck the note of a reassuring friendliness in his manner to the girl, and the old people, rather reservedly chimed in. She seemed grateful, thanked them, reiterating her distress. In the elevator, going down, Molly noticed that she fell into a staring abstraction, starting nervously as the iron gate swung back at the ground floor.

Ferguson, waiting on the curb, saw them as they emerged from the doorway. His eyes leaped at the girl, and, as she crossed the sidewalk, were riveted on her. Their expression was plain, yearning and passion no longer disguised. If she saw the look she gave no sign, nodded to him, and, leaving Molly to explain, climbed into the back seat and sunk in a corner. Though the afternoon was hot she picked up the cloak lying on the floor and drew it round her shoulders.

The drive home was very silent. Molly gave the prescribed reasons for her presence and heard them answered with the brief comments of inattention. She also touched on the other matters and found her companion so unresponsive that she desisted. It was evident that Esther Maitland wanted to be left to her own thoughts. Huddled in the cloak, her eyes fixed on the road in front, she sat as silent and enigmatic as a sphinx.