Christopher put her in a big chair and bustled off to give directions. "I'll have coffee for them, and the beds made."
Hildegarde was glad of the warmth and quiet. In her mad rush she had left her coat behind her, and Christopher had wrapped her in his own. She took it off and sat in her white evening dress, with her arms bare. Her hands were held out to the blaze. She could see them tremble. She was completely unnerved. She wanted her mother. She wanted. . . .
The front door opened. She turned and faced it. Somebody was calling hoarsely, "Christopher!"
It was her father.
"Daddy!" she cried. "Daddy!" And went swiftly toward him.
He took her in his arms. "I've been mad with fear." His voice was shaken by emotion. "They telephoned that there was a fire. I got the car and went at once, but I couldn't find you. Then I came across Winslow, and he said Christopher had brought you here."
Carew wore no hat. A fur coat was thrown over his evening clothes. His face was white with anxiety. His eyes burned in their deep sockets. He put Hildegarde in the big chair and knelt beside her.
"Promise you won't leave me," he said. "All day long I've been wanting to come to you and beg you not to go. I don't know what I've done. But whatever it is, I won't lose you. You are my child. Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. I've always wanted you . . . you're mine."
