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There was no light and somehow the silence smote on her ominously.

“Florence!” she called.

There was no answer.

Not a sign indicated her presence. There was the divan with the pillows disarranged as they had been when she left. The furniture was in the same position as before. Hastily she went from one room to another. Florence had disappeared!

She went to the door again. All seemed right there. If any one had entered, it must have been because he was admitted, for there were no marks to indicate that the lock had been forced.

She called up the tea room. Mrs. Palmer was very sympathetic, but there had been no trace of “Viola Cole” there yet.

“You will let me know if you get any word?” asked Constance anxiously.

“Surely,” came back Mrs. Palmer’s cordial reply.

A hundred dire possibilities crowded through her mind. Might Florence be held somewhere as a “white slave”–not by physical force but by circumstances, ignorant of her rights, afraid to break away again?

Or was it suicide, as she had threatened? She could not believe it. Nothing could have happened in such a short time to change her resolution about revenge.

The recollection of all the stories she had read recently crossed her mind. Could it be a case of drugs? The girl had given no evidence of being a “dope” fiend.

Perhaps some one had entered, after all.

She thought of the so-called “poisoned needle” cases. Might she not have been spirited off in that way? Constance had doubted the stories. She knew that almost any doctor would say that it was impossible to inject a narcotic by a sudden jab of a hypodermic syringe. That was rather a slow, careful and deliberate operation, to be submitted to with patience.

Yet Florence was gone!

Suddenly it flashed over Constance that Drummond might not be seeking the reward primarily, after all. His first object might be shielding Preston. She recollected that Mr. Gibbons had said nothing about Drummond, either one way or the other. And if he were both shielding Preston and working for the reward, he would care little how much Florence suffered. He might be playing both ends to serve himself.

She rang the elevator bell.

“Has anybody called at my apartment while I was out?” she asked.

“Yes’m. A man came here.”

“And you let him up?”

“I didn’t know you were out. You see I had just come on. He said he was to meet some one at your apartment. And when he pressed the buzzer, the door opened, and I ran the elevator down again. I thought it was all right, ma’am.”

“And then what?” inquired Constance breathlessly.

“Well, in about five minutes my bell rang. I ran the elevator up again, and, waiting, was this man with a girl I had never seen before. You understand–I thought it was all right–he told me he was going to meet some one.”

“Yes–yes. I understand. Oh, my God, if I had only thought to leave word not to let her go. How did she look?”

“Her clothes, you mean, Ma’am?”

“No–her face, her eyes!”

“Beggin’ your pardon, I thought she was–well, er,–acted queer– scared–dazed-like.”

“You didn’t notice which way they went, I suppose!”

“No ma’am, I didn’t.”

Constance turned back again into her empty apartment, heart-sick. In spite of all she had planned and done, she was defeated–worse than defeated. Where was Florence! What might not happen to her! She could have sat down and cried. Instead she passed a feverishly restless night.

All the next day passed, and still not a word. She felt her own helplessness. She could not appeal to the police. That might defeat the very end she sought. She was single-handed. For all she knew, she was fighting the almost limitless power of brains and money of Preston. Inquiry developed the fact that Preston himself was reported to be in Chicago with his fiancee. Time and again she was on the point of making the journey to let him know that some one at least was watching him. But, she reflected, if she did that she might miss the one call from Florence for help.