paper. He stepped into his automobile, with the word "Home," and then settled back to read the news. There was the whole scene of the conference, with the embellishments of the usual kind, and the story of the strike resolutions and the beginning of rioting. There were also some savage editorials—it was a "yellow" journal. Mr. Robert van Rensselaer read them and smiled.

He arrived at his residence,—which, it should be added, was no longer a little apartment, but a palatial mansion just a few blocks above the paternal one. As he was still meditating about the strike, it was with a start that he came back to himself when the butler, who opened the door for him, remarked:—

"I beg pardon, sir. There's a lady in the parlor to see you."

Mr. van Rensselaer opened his eyes. "A lady?" he said.

"A lady, I presume, sir," said the butler.

"What's her name?"

"She didn't give any name, sir. She just said she must see you; and she would not take any refusal, sir."

"Humph!" said the other. "I'll go in."

And so in he went and gazed at the woman, who wore a heavy veil. She rose up and flung it aside, disclosing a face ghastly white, and so like a death's head that the other started back.

"Do you know me?" she asked.

"Er—no," said Mr. van Rensselaer.

"You really don't know me, Robbie?"

And then suddenly he gave a gasp, and cried, "Daisy!"

"Yes," said the other, "Daisy."

They sat for a full minute gazing at each other: she at a well-filled face and waist-coat; he at a trembling skeleton.

"Well?" said he, suddenly; "what do you want?"

"Nothing much," she replied. "I'm dying, you know, Robbie."

"What's the matter?" asked he.

"Consumption."

"Humph! It's been a long time. What have you been doing?"

"I've been living up north—in Albany. I took another name, you know, as soon as I left New York. There's a child, Robbie."

"Oh!" exclaimed the other. "Sure enough! A boy?"

"No, a girl."

"Humph! Must be—let's see—twelve years old now."

"Thirteen, Robbie. That's what I've come to see you about."

"So I guessed. Is she here—in New York?"

"No; she's up in Albany—with some kind people. I couldn't bear to bring her; but I—I—"

The woman stopped and gazed into his eyes a moment. Then she went on swiftly, stretching out her lean arms to him. "Do something for her, Robbie, won't you? That's what I want. I'm not for this world long, and I can't help her, but you can. I've led a hard life, but she hasn't an idea of it; she has the locket you gave me, but I've kept the secret from her, and she doesn't even know her father's name. I've never bothered you, Robbie; but do for her what you might have done for me."

"I imagine the old gentleman did pretty well by you, didn't he?" said the other in a matter-of-fact way.

"I'm not complaining," said she. "Only promise you'll find her and do something for her. It won't hurt you—do promise me, do."

The woman's voice quivered, and she leaned forward in the chair, steadying her shaking form. The other, always a kind-hearted man, was touched. "I will, Daisy," he said, "I will."

"You promise me?" gasped the woman.

"Yes, I promise you."

All right," said she, starting to rise. "That's all I want. You won't have any trouble in finding her. Her name—her—"

And then suddenly she staggered. She lurched backward, grasping at the chair, and turned white, a horrible sound coming from her throat. The man leaped forward and caught her. She lay limp in his arms. He shouted for help, and when the butler came, sent him on the run for a cab.

"Take her around the corner to the hospital," he commanded.

So they bore out the gasping form; and Mr. Robert van Rensselaer went slowly and thoughtfully upstairs. "Devilish annoying," he mused. "How shall I find the girl after that?"

When the butler came back he inquired anxiously. "She was dead before we got there, sir," said the man.

XIII

The death of "Daisy" came to seem more and more annoying the more Robert van Rensselaer thought it over. Open-handed man as he was, he would have thought nothing of sending the girl a few thousand dollars; but now all kinds of trouble might result from an attempt to do it. There were no means of identification about the body; and if he were to ask the police to find the woman's child, how long would it be then before scandal was busy? There are so many people ready to believe evil about a wealthy man; and besides, there were hundreds who had known about Daisy. To be sure, they never thought of it, at this late date; but how long would it take them to put two and two together, and to have the whole town gabbling and winking? And if he were to turn the matter over to private detectives, he would lay himself equally open to suspicion. One can never tell about such men, he mused—they might find out the story, and then anything could happen.

It was by no means pleasant to think of one's own flesh and blood suffering poverty. But then van Rensselaer reflected that people would probably take care of her; and that in any case she had never been used to wealth, and would not feel the difference; also that if he sent her money it would very probably serve but to teach her extravagance and lead her into temptation. So it would seem to be his duty to let the whole matter drop and forget it.

XIV

These things he was meditating while with the assistance of his valet he was donning a dress-suit; afterward he descended and entered his automobile, and in half an hour they reached the dock. It was then nearing sundown, and the rain was gone, and the river was golden. Van Rensselaer drank in the fresh sea breeze as he alighted, and moved toward the waiting Comet. Steam was pouring out from the funnels of the yacht, and the captain stood at the gang-plank.

"All ready, sir," he said.

"Every one on board?" inquired the owner.

"Half an hour ago, sir."

"Very well. Cast off."

And then, amid the shouting of orders, Mr. Robert van Rensselaer moved forward to the stern, where a dozen ladies and gentlemen were seated, wrapped warmly in coats and shawls, and enjoying the beautiful scene. They greeted him with laughter and merry welcome; they had cause to be a happy party, for in America there was no host like Robert van Rensselaer.

And his guests were worthy of him. Here was the peerless Mrs. Dyemandust, mistress of seventy-two millions, and of all society; here was Mrs. Miner-Gold, worth fifty-seven and a half in her own name; here was Victor de Vere, leader in the smart set and wittiest man in town; here was Pidgin of the great Steal Trust, and Mergem, owner of forty-two railroads. Here was Miss Paragon, the dèbutante, about whom the town was mad, and here was his Grace the Duc de Petitebourse, the distinguished French visitor, who cried out that Miss Paragon was "ravissante—un miracle!" It is boldness merely to name such company in a novel.

"And oh, by the way," asks Mrs. Dyemandust, suddenly, "how did you settle the strike?"

"Strike?" echoes Mr. Robert van Rensselaer (he had forgotten it completely), "there are no strikes on the Comet."

XV