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Leslie laid down the photograph with a sigh, and, retracing her steps to the window, was just in time to see a big Mastodon bring up at the curb in the street below, from which four men alighted: Peter V. Wilkinson, her father, looking very much exercised and troubled; Flomerfelt, his confidential man; and, lastly, two Pinkerton detectives, recently-acquired guards who were never far away whenever he appeared in the open.

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"What the deuce is that machine doing in front of my place?" were the words that Peter V. Wilkinson spoke as his eyes lighted upon the dark blue limousine that had been standing for so long a time before his house.

"Whose machine is it?" answered Flomerfelt, who had not yet recognised it. But a moment more he emitted a whistle and whispered softly under his breath: "By George, it's hers!"

Wilkinson's eyes bulged with anger.

"What does she mean by coming here?" He clutched Flomerfelt's shoulder as in a vise. "You don't suppose she's come to see my wife, do you? What's she up to? Why, I wouldn't have even little Pallister see her for the world! And as for Leslie! Thunder and lightning, if Leslie finds this out—anything but that!"