On Saturday afternoon several telephone messages were sent to Esther Maitland at O'Malley's flat. They came from Ferguson, from Grasslands, and the Whitney office. In the two latter cases they were conciliatory and apologetic and asked that Miss Maitland would see the senders and explain the circumstances that had so strangely involved her in the case.

To both her employers and the Whitneys Miss Maitland returned an evasive answer. She would be happy to do as they asked, but would have to let a few more days pass before she would be free to speak. Meantime she would remain with Mrs. O'Malley, who had offered to keep her, and who had treated her with the utmost kindness and consideration. One request she made—this to the Whitneys—she would like Chapman Price to be advised of her whereabouts. It would be necessary for her to communicate with him before she would be able to explain her share in the mystery.

Ferguson's message had been an importunate demand to let him come to her. She refused, said she would see no one until she was at liberty to clear herself, which would not be for some days yet. Her voice showed a tremulous urgency, a note of pleading, new to his ears and infinitely sweet. But he could not break down her resolution; she begged him to do as she asked, not to seek her out, not to demand any explanations until she was ready to give them. The one favor she granted him was that when the time was up and she could break her silence, he could come for her.

This did not happen until Wednesday. That morning she 'phoned to them all that she could now see them and tell them what they wanted to hear. A meeting was arranged at the Whitney office for three that afternoon and Ferguson went to fetch her.

They met in Mrs. O'Malley's front parlor, considerately vacated and with the folding doors closed against intrusion. Without greeting Ferguson took her hands and held them, looking down into her face. She was beaming, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shy. She began to say something about being at last able to vindicate herself, but he cut her off:

"Before you go into that, I want to say something to you."

"No, that's not fair; I must speak first and you must let me. It's my privilege."

"With the others maybe, but not with me. What I have to say has to be said before I hear. Esther, do you know what it is?"

She was silent, her head drooping, her hands growing cold in his grasp. He went on, very quietly and simply:

"It's that I ask you to be my wife. And I must ask it before the clearing or vindicating or any rubbish of that sort. I don't know what you'll say to it and I don't want any answer now. That's at your own good time and your own good pleasure. It's just that I wanted you to see how I stand and have stood since that night when we walked through the woods together. Come along now—it's nearly three, and we mustn't keep them waiting."

It was a very different Esther who sat in Wilbur Whitney's private office, facing those who had once been her accusers. She gave no evidence of rancor, greeted them with a frank friendliness, smiled with a radiance they set down to the rebound from long tension and strain. Suzanne, her jealous fires burned out, could acknowledge now that she was handsome; Mr. Janney wondered at her look of breeding. "A fine girl," old Whitney thought, as he studied her through his glasses, "spirited and high-mettled as a racer."

"It's a long story," she said, "and for you to understand it I'll have to go back to a time when none of you had ever heard of me. And before I begin, I want to say to Mrs. Janney," she turned to the older woman eagerly earnest, "if I had understood people better, if I hadn't been hardened and made suspicious by the struggle I'd had, I would have trusted you and told you more, and all this misery would have been averted. So, in a way it was my fault, and being such I've suffered for it.

"I have a half-sister, Florence Jackson, nine years younger than I am; that would make her eighteen. When my stepfather died, ten years ago, he left us penniless and I had to start in at once to make our bread. I boarded Florry out with friends and found a position as a school teacher. That was only for a year or two; soon I advanced into the secretarial work which was less fatiguing and better paying. In the first place I got, Florry was living near me and on Sundays she used to come and see me. My employer didn't like it—did not want a strange child about the house and told me so without mincing words. I was angry—I was hot-tempered and sensitive in those days and I made a vow to keep my life to myself, be nothing to my employers but a machine who rendered certain services for a certain wage. When I came to you, Mrs. Janney, I should have seen that I was with some one who was big-hearted and generous, but I had been molded and the mold had set in a hard and bitter shape.

"Earning more money I was able to put Florry in good schools. It was my intention to give her a fine education, and equip her for the task of earning her living. She was quick and clever, but willful and hard to control. I suppose it was because she had had no home influences, no place that belonged to her. She had to spend her vacations anywhere—sometimes at the school, sometimes with classmates. It was a miserable life for a child.

"She was always pretty—when she was little people used to stop on the streets to look at her—and as she grew older she grew prettier. She was charming, too, there was something about her very willfulness that was captivating. The combination worried me; if she had had more balance, been more reasonable, it wouldn't have mattered. But she was the kind who is always full of wild enthusiasms, going off at a tangent about this, that and the other. Not a promising temperament for a girl who has to support herself.

"A year ago I got her into a first class school near Chicago—I had met the principal, who had been very kind and taken her at a greatly reduced rate. It was to be her last year; in June she would graduate and with her education finished, I felt sure I could get her a position in New York where I could help her and watch over her. During the winter—last winter—her letters made me uneasy. She was discontented, tired of study, wanted to be out in the world doing something. I was prepared for a struggle with her, but not for what happened.

"One day—it was in March—I had a letter from her saying she had run away from school, was in New York and was looking for a job. I was angry and bitterly disappointed, also I was frightened—Florry in New York without a cent, with no one to be with her, with no home or companion. I went to the address she gave me and found her in the hall bedroom of a third rate boarding house—a woman on the train had told her of it—full of high spirits and a sort of childish joy at being free. She did not understand my disappointment, laughed at my fears. I lost my temper, said more than I ought—and—well, we had a quarrel, the first real one we ever had.

"That night I couldn't sleep, blaming myself, knowing that whatever she did it was my duty to stand by her. The next day I went to the place and found she'd gone, leaving no address. For three days I heard nothing from her and was on the verge of going to you, Mrs. Janney, and imploring your aid and advice, when a letter came. She was all right, she had found paying employment, she was independent at last. In my first spare hour I went to her and found her in another boarding house, a cheap, shabby place, but decent. A good many working women lived there, the better paid shop girls and heads of departments. It was through one of these, a fitter, at Camille's, that she had got work. With her beauty it had been easy—she had been employed as a model at Camille's."

"Camille's!" the word came on a startled note from Suzanne. Esther turned to her:

"Yes, Mrs. Price, and you saw her there—you ordered a dress from a model that Florry wore."

"The girl with the reddish hair—the tall girl?"

"Yes, that was Florry. She told me afterward how she walked up and down in front of you."

"But—" Suzanne's voice showed an incredulous wonder, "she was beautiful; they were all talking about her."

"I said she was—I was not exaggerating. She was satisfied with her work, liked it, I think she would have liked anything that was novel and took her away from the grind of study. I didn't like it, but at least it wasn't the stage, and I set about trying to find something better. That was the situation till April and then—" She paused, her eyes dropped to the floor. The color suddenly rose in her face and raising them she shot a look at Ferguson. He answered it with a slight, almost imperceptible nod and smiled in open encouragement. She took a deep breath and addressed Mrs. Janney:

"What I have to tell now isn't pleasant for me to say or for you to hear, but I have to tell it for all the subsequent events grew from it. Mr. Price had been to Camille's that first time with his wife."

There was a slight stir in the listening company, a sudden focusing of intent eyes on the girl, a waiting expectancy in the grave faces. She saw it and answered it:

"Yes, he saw Florry. He went again—Mrs. Price was buying several dresses. After that second visit he waited one night at the side door used for employees and spoke to her. I can't condone what she did, but I can say in extenuation that she was very young, very inexperienced, that she knew who Mr. Price was, and that she had never in her life met a man of his attractions.

"She didn't hide it from me, was frank and outspoken about the meeting and his subsequent attentions. For he saw her often after that, took her for walks on Sunday, sent her theater tickets and books. I was filled with anxiety, besought of her to give it up, but she wouldn't, she couldn't. Before I went to Grasslands I realized a situation was developing that made me sick with apprehension. She was in love, madly in love. I couldn't reason with her, I couldn't make her listen to me; she was blind and deaf to anything but him and what he said.

"I went to Mr. Price and implored him to leave her alone. I had to catch him as I could—in the halls, at odd moments in the library, for he hated the scenes I made and tried to avoid me. He assured me that he meant no harm, that her position was hard and he was sorry for her. I threatened to tell Mrs. Janney, and he said I could if I wanted, that he would soon be done with them all and didn't care. I saw then that he too, like Florry, was growing indifferent to everything but the hours when they were together—that he was in love.

"That was the situation when I went to Grasslands. It was much worse there—I couldn't see her often, I was in ignorance of how things were going with her, for her letters told me little. It was unbearable, and I went into town whenever I could; all the extra holidays were asked for so that I could go into the city and see how Florry was getting on. On one of these visits she told me something that, at the time, I paid little attention to, setting it down as one of her passing fancies; she was interested in the working girls' unions. At Camille's and in the boarding house she had fallen in with a group of girls of Socialistic beliefs and, through them, had met their organizers and backers. She was much more deeply involved than I guessed. Her fearlessness, her ardor for anything new and exciting, making her a valuable addition to their ranks. It carried her far, to the edge of tragedy."

She turned to Mr. Janney:

"Do you remember, Mr. Janney, one morning early in July, how I read you an account of a strike riot among the shirtwaist makers when one of the girls stabbed a policeman with a hatpin?"

The old man nodded:

"Yes, vaguely. I have a dim memory of arguing about it with you."

"That was the time. Well, that girl was Florry. She lost her head completely, stabbed the man, and in the tumult that followed, managed to get away through the hall of a tenement house. She was hidden by friends of hers, Russian socialists called Rychlovsky. I have met them; they seem decent, kindly people, and they certainly were very good to her. When I read you the article I had no more idea that the girl was Florry than you had. It was not until the next morning that I received a letter from her, telling me what she had done and where she was.

"She wrote two letters, one to me and one to Mr. Price. He had told her that he would spend his week-ends with the Hartleys at Cedar Brook and she sent his there. Mine was delivered on the morning of July the seventh but he did not get his until the same evening when he came to Cedar Brook from the city. Each of us acted as promptly as we could, but he went to her before I did, going in that night in his car.

"It seems incredible that he should have done what he did, dared to take such a risk. But when he found her cooped up in the rear room of a tenement, lonely and frightened, he prevailed on her to go out with him in his motor. He took her for a drive far up the Hudson, not returning until after midnight. The Rychlovskys, who had missed her and were in a state of alarm, were furious. When I went there the next day they were vociferous in their desire to be rid of her, saying she would land them all in jail. I was her sister; it was up to me, I must find another lair for her.

"I had heard of the house in Gayle Street from two girls, art students, who had once lived there. It was the only place I could think of; and when I found that the top floor was vacant, I realized that she could be hidden in one of the rooms and no one suspect it was occupied. I engaged it and paid the rent, telling the janitor the story of a friend coming from the West. Then I took the key back to Florry. The Rychlovskys, pacified by the thought that she would be out of their house, undertook to furnish her with food. They made her promise that she would keep to the room, light no gas at night, make no noise, and stay away from the window. Florry was by this time thoroughly cowed and agreed to everything. It was through their adroitness that the room passed as vacant. They visited her in the evening, a time when many people came and went in the house, bringing in her food and carrying away what was left in newspapers. They had two extra keys made, one for me, one for Mr. Price. I brought her money, Mr. Price books and magazines. He saw her oftener than I did, and gave me news of her. This I asked him to do by letter. I had once met him by Little Fresh Pond, and another time he had telephoned. I was afraid of repeating the meeting at the pond—we had both come upon Miss Rogers and BÉbita on the way out—and I dreaded being overheard at the 'phone.

"All went well for two weeks, though we were terribly frightened, for the policeman developed blood-poisoning, and for some time hung between life and death. Then the Rychlovskys suggested a plan that seemed to me the only way out of our dangers and difficulties. A friend of theirs, a woman doctor, was one of a hospital unit sailing from Montreal to France. This woman, allied with them in their Socialistic activities, agreed to get Florry into her group as a hospital attendant, take her to France and look after her. It struck us all as feasible and as lacking in danger as any plan for her removal could be. The doctor was a woman of high character who told the Rychlovskys she would keep Florry near her as the unit was shorthanded and needed all the workers it could get. The one person who showed no enthusiasm was Florry herself. I knew perfectly what was the matter—she did not want to leave Chapman Price. He tried to persuade her, was as worried and anxious as I was. The situation between them had cleared to a definite understanding—when his wife had obtained her divorce he would go to France and marry Florry there.

"And now I come to the day of the kidnaping, that dreadful, unforgettable day!

"The morning before—Thursday—I had seen her and found her in a state of nervous indecision, weeping and miserable. I knew I was to be in town with Mrs. Price the next day and told her if I could get time I would come to her. Mrs. Price had told me how we were to divide the errands and I realized, if I could finish mine earlier than she expected, I would have a chance of seeing Florry. I had just been paid my salary and that, with some money I had saved, I brought with me. My intention was to give all this to Florry and implore her to go with the hospital unit, which was scheduled to leave Montreal early the following week.

"Things worked out as I had hoped. The commissions took less time than Mrs. Price had calculated and I found that I would be able to spend a few minutes with Florry. In case BÉbita should mention the excursion downtown, I ordered the driver to drop me at a bookbindery on the corner of Gale Street. I could easily explain our stop there by saying that I had left a book to be bound.

"When I reached the room I found her in a state of hysterical terror—she said the house was watched. Peeping out through the coarse lace curtains that veiled the window, she had several times noticed a man lounging about the corner. At first she had thought nothing of him, but the day before he had reappeared, and stayed about the block most of the afternoon covertly watching the entrance and the upper floor. I was nearly as frightened as she was—the thing was only too probable. There was no difficulty in getting her to go with the hospital ship. She had only stayed on in the hope of seeing me and having me tell her what to do.

"I gave her the money and told her to wait until nightfall and then slip out and go to the Rychlovskys. They had promised to help her in any way they could, and with BÉbita waiting in the cab, I couldn't go with her. It was a simply hideous position to have to leave her that way. But it was all I could think of—it came so unexpectedly I was stunned by it.

"When I reached the bookbindery the taxi was gone! Can you imagine what I felt? I told the truth when I said my first thought was that BÉbita might have played a joke on me. I did think that, for my mind, confused and crowded with deadly fears, could not take in a new catastrophe. Then, when I saw Mrs. Price and realized that the child had mysteriously disappeared, while with me, while in my charge—I—well, I hope I'll never have to live over moments like those again. I had to keep one fact before my mind—to be quiet, to be cool, not to do or say anything that might betray Florry. If I'd known what you suspected, I couldn't have done it. But, of course, I hadn't any idea then you thought I was implicated.

"Florry had told me she would communicate with Mr. Price and he would give me word of her. The telephone message that Miss Rogers tapped was that word; all I received. It relieved me immensely, I began to feel the dreadful strain relaxing, I began to think we were on the high road to safety. And then came that day here in the office. Shall I ever forget it!"

She turned to Mrs. Janney:

"If I had had the least idea of what was going to be done here, I would have tried to get to you and have thrown myself on your mercy. But I was completely unsuspecting and unprepared, and with Mr. Whitney as the judge, representing the law, I did not dare to tell the truth, I had to lie.

"As you saw, I lied as well as I could, puzzled at first, not knowing what you were getting at, to what point it was all leading. Then, when you caught me with the tapped message, I saw—I guessed how circumstances had woven a net about me. I realized there was nothing to be done but let you believe it, let you do what you wanted with me. You couldn't make me speak, and if I could stay silent till Florry was in Europe, hidden, lost in the chaos of a country at war, it would be all right."

She swept their faces with a glance, half pleading, half triumphant.

"She is there now—this morning Mr. Price had a cable from her. I have told this to Mr. Whitney as well as the rest because I have thought—shut up in O'Malley's flat I had much time for thinking things out straight and clear—that after my explanation, no one would want, no one would dare, to bring that unfortunate girl back here to face a criminal charge. She has had her lesson, she will never forget it, the man she wounded is back on the force as good as ever. No human being with a conscience and a heart—" she looked at Whitney—"and you have both—could want to make her pay more bitterly than she has. She is safe, under intelligent supervision. She can work, be useful, where her youth and strength and enthusiasm are needed. I did not trust you before, Mr. Whitney, but I do now and I know that my trust is not misplaced."

A murmur, a concerted sound of agreement, came from her listeners. Whitney, pushing his chair back from the desk, said gravely:

"You can rest assured, Miss Maitland, that the matter will die here with us to-day. As you say, your sister has had her punishment. She will stay in France of course?"

"Yes, make her home there, I think. When Mr. Price is free he is to go over and marry her. He intends to sell his business out and offer his services to the French government."

There was a moment of silence, then Mrs. Janney spoke, clearing her throat, her face flushed with feeling:

"As you've said, Miss Maitland, none of this would have happened if you'd seen fit to come to me. But it's no use going over that now—we've all made mistakes and we're all sorry. What we—the Janneys—want to do is to be fair, to be just, and now—if it is not too late—to make amends. The only way you can show your willingness to forget and forgive, is to come back at once to Grasslands and take things up where you left them."

The girl for a moment did not answer, her face reddening with a sudden embarrassment. Mrs. Janney saw the blush, read it as reluctance and exclaimed:

"Oh, Miss Maitland, don't say you refuse. It's as if you wouldn't take my hand held out in apology, in friendship."

"No, no"—Esther was obviously distressed—"don't think that, Mrs. Janney, it's not that. It's that I can't—I've—I've made another engagement—I'm going to marry Mr. Ferguson."