door. Apparently puzzled, she drew a telegram from her purse and read it over. She was a fine-looking woman of thirty-five, dressed all in black, even to her furs, though she wore no mourning veil. Her only luggage was a small traveling bag. Everything about her stamped her as a woman of culture and influence, if not rich, at least comfortably off. Yet her demeanor was timid, almost frightened.
As she started to ascend the steps, a green motorcar, driving furiously, came down Thirty-fourth Street and drew up suddenly before her. A young girl, fresh and pretty, smartly dressed, and with an air of jaunty confidence, jumped out.
The woman who had first arrived stared at her in astonishment. "Why," she said, "how do you happen to be here?" The look of perplexity and timidity in her eyes deepened now into positive alarm. "Oh!" she breathed, "you're not a detective?"
Valeska took her hand affectionately. "No, my dear Mrs. Burbank, only a friend who wants to help you. I knew that if I told you on the train you'd never come here; so I didn't dare to explain that we had really imposed upon you. Bobby is quite well, I assure you. You needn't worry on his account. And I hope on no other account either; for I'm sure that by this time the Master has been able to straighten things out."
"The Master?" Mrs. Burbank gasped.
"Yes, Astro, the Master of Mysteries, my employer and my friend, as I'm sure he is yours. Your husband secured his services, for no one else would have been able to find you and help you without danger of publicity. Come right up and you'll hear from him that everything is all right."
