The Reporter had not been bent on mischief.  Far from it.  He was merely grappling bravely with the task of being agreeable to the great lady.  Surely it was but natural that in the course of a long conversation the Candy Man’s curious resemblance to Augustus should suggest itself as a topic; and given a gleam of something like interest in his companion’s eyes, it was easy to continue from bad to worse.

He lived in the same apartment house as Virginia, and from her he had heard of the Christmas tree, and the Candy Man’s presence on the occasion; also of that old accident on the corner in which the Candy Man had figured as Miss Bentley’s rescuer.  No wonder those intuitions regarding a person who was not Augustus should have risen to torture Mrs. Pennington.  All this circumstantial evidence was very black against Margaret Elizabeth, seemingly so honest and frank.  No wonder Mrs. Pennington was distraught.

Meanwhile, wherever her heart might be, Margaret Elizabeth herself was out.  Uncle Bob, coming in, paper in hand, to greet the visitor cordially, could not imagine where she had gone, and peered around the room as if after all she might have escaped their notice.  If she wasn’t in, he was confident she would be, in the course of a few minutes, which confidence was not a logical deduction from known facts, but merely an untrustworthy inference, born of his surprise at finding her out at all.

Placing a chair for Mrs. Pennington, he took one himself and regarded her genially.  Some minutes of polite conversation followed, in the course of which Mrs. Pennington, concealing her agitation, spoke of her journey to Chicago in quest of colonial furnishings.  Mr. Vandegrift in his turn brought forward Florida and orange groves.

But Margaret Elizabeth delayed her coming, and Mrs. Pennington could stand it no longer.  “Mr. Vandegrift,” she began, after the silence that followed the last word on oranges, “I regret that my niece is not here, yet it may be as well to speak to you first.  I may say, to make an appeal to you.  You are, I am sure, fond of Margaret Elizabeth.”  She played nervously with the fastening of her shopping bag.

Uncle Bob looked at her in surprise, then at the toe of his shoe.  “I think I may safely admit it,” he owned, crossing his knees and nodding his head.

“Then, Mr. Vandegrift, I beseech you, with all the feeling of which I am capable, to unite with me in saving this misguided girl.”  At this point all her intuitions and fears rallied around Mrs. Pennington, and gave a quiver to her voice.

Uncle Bob was astonished at her tone, and said so.

“I assure you, Mr. Vandegrift, I have her own word for it.”  She produced a note from her bag.

“Her word for what?” he asked.

“Why, for—­oh, Mr. Vandegrift, let us not waste time in futile fencing.  You must know that Margaret Elizabeth has deceived me; has been guilty of base ingratitude; has been meeting clandestinely a person—­a mere adventurer.  I can scarcely bring myself to say it.  My brother Richard’s daughter!” Mrs. Pennington had recourse to her handkerchief.