clergyman's daughter, and he was the son of Cyrus King, but the little god had winged his arrow straight, and the wound was deliciously deep.
Twenty minutes after King left, Janet, having donned hat and wrap, came out and walked swiftly down the street. Her face was chill and sad; she was deserted by hope; yet she would see Henry Cope.
Behind his counter, the grocer peered at her over his glasses.
"Mornin', Janet," he said cheerfully. "'N-*other ruther nice day."
"Mr. Cope, I'd like to speak with you a moment privately."
Surprised, he took note of her pallor and the girl's troubled look. Her voice had an unusual sound. Pushing up his spectacles, he came from behind the counter.
"Step inter my office," he invited.
In the office he urged her to sit down, saying she looked tired; but she preferred to stand.
"I'll bother you only a minute," she said.
"No bother at all—no bother. What can I do? Anything the matter?"
"I have come to ask you, confidentially, about—about the man who is called Tom Locke." She half turned her head away.
