The next morning came a compact letter from her father. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. "Your detective has been remiss in his duty; let him suffer for it. Later, when the Reverend Henry Dolby entered the Spurlock room, his wife and daughter trailing amusedly behind him, and beheld the strained eagerness on the two young faces, he smiled inwardly and indulgently. When the bell rang, she lagged behind as was her habit. "You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth's father, Aliva," he said. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. They all balk because there aren't any petticoats.
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