he made a turn through the lower rooms, following an old instinct to see that everything was right, which was a relic of his days before he had a man to lock up at night, he imagined he heard a step in his daughter's room. Had Marjorie come home? What a time for her to have come! How could he face her?
He listened for several moments; then, hearing nothing, he ascended and, after listening again, he proceeded to her door, knocked and, receiving no answer, opened the door and entered.
The stillness of the room sent a shrinking through him; of course, it had been still many times before when Marjorie was away and, of course, it had been still ever since she left that note to him and abandoned him; but never till this instant had he felt it dead like this. Never had he felt how finally she was gone—gone from him not to come back; gone was his wife; gone forever from his home the quick young voices of Marjorie's and his friends; for he had made them his friends, those boys and girls who had come here. And Charles Hale had never in his pre-accountings with himself reckoned on loss of quite all this. How gone, gone the whole home was. And what was happening to Marjorie? In what strange, particular danger might she be in this moment of this night? It frightened him, set him jumpy again and overcome again with guilt. It seemed to him that this night he had again definitely imperilled his daughter.
When he went to his own room, he found a memorandum left by Martin stating that Mr. Whittaker had telephoned during the evening and left his name. This was mere routine, for Billy telephoned for news of Marjorie every evening. It annoyed Hale, particularly when he happened to answer the telephone when
