“Is Mr. Fiorsen in, Ford?”

“No, ma’am; Mr. Fiorsen and Count Rosek went into the country this afternoon.  I haven’t their address at present.”  She must have turned white, for she could hear the man saying:  “Anything I can get you, ma’am?”

“When did they start, please?”

“One o’clock, ma’am—­by car.  Count Rosek was driving himself.  I should say they won’t be away long—­they just had their bags with them.”  Gyp put out her hand helplessly; she heard the servant say in a concerned voice:  “I could let you know the moment they return, ma’am, if you’d kindly leave me your address.”

Giving her card, and murmuring: 

“Thank you, Ford; thank you very much,” she grasped Betty’s arm again and leaned heavily on her going down the stairs.

It was real, black fear now.  To lose helpless things—­children—­ dogs—­and know for certain that one cannot get to them, no matter what they may be suffering!  To be pinned down to ignorance and have in her ears the crying of her child—­this horror, Gyp suffered now.  And nothing to be done!  Nothing but to go to bed and wait—­ hardest of all tasks!  Mercifully—­thanks to her long day in the open—­she fell at last into a dreamless sleep, and when she was called, there was a letter from Fiorsen on the tray with her tea.

“Gyp: 

“I am not a baby-stealer like your father.  The law gives me the right to my own child.  But swear to give up your lover, and the baby shall come back to you at once.  If you do not give him up, I will take her away out of England.  Send me an answer to this post-office, and do not let your father try any tricks upon me.

“Gustav Fiorsen.”

Beneath was written the address of a West End post-office.

When Gyp had finished reading, she went through some moments of such mental anguish as she had never known, but—­just as when Betty first told her of the stealing—­her wits and wariness came quickly back.  Had he been drinking when he wrote that letter?  She could almost fancy that she smelled brandy, but it was so easy to fancy what one wanted to.  She read it through again—­this time, she felt almost sure that it had been dictated to him.  If he had composed the wording himself, he would never have resisted a gibe at the law, or a gibe at himself for thus safeguarding her virtue.  It was Rosek’s doing.  Her anger flamed up anew.  Since they used such mean, cruel ways, why need she herself be scrupulous?  She sprang out of bed and wrote: 

“How could you do such a brutal thing?  At all events, let the darling have her nurse.  It’s not like you to let a little child suffer.  Betty will be ready to come the minute you send for her.  As for myself, you must give me time to decide.  I will let you know within two days.

“Gyp.”

When she had sent this off, and a telegram to her father at Newmarket, she read Fiorsen’s letter once more, and was more than ever certain that it was Rosek’s wording.  And, suddenly, she thought of Daphne Wing, whom her father had seen coming out of Rosek’s house.  Through her there might be a way of getting news.  She seemed to see again the girl lying so white and void of hope when robbed by death of her own just-born babe.  Yes; surely it was worth trying.