What is his name?" Carmencita's voice was high and
shrill, and her foot was stamped vehemently. "What is his name?"
"Stephen Van Landing."
Face to face, Frances Barbour and Carmencita looked into each other's
eyes, then with a leap Carmencita was out of the room and down the
steps and at the telephone. With hands that trembled she turned the
pages of the book she was holding upside down, then with disgust at
her stupidity she righted it and ran her finger down the long line of
V's. Finding at last the name she wanted, she called the number, then
closed her eyes and prayed fervently, feverishly, and half-aloud the
words came jerkily:
"O God, please let him be home, and let him get down here quick before
Miss Frances goes out. She and Mother McNeil are going somewhere and
won't be back until eleven, and that would be too late for him to
come, and--Hello!" The receiver was jammed closer to her ear. "Is
that Mr. Van Landing's house? Is he home? He--he--isn't home!" The
words came in a little wail. "Oh, he must be home! Are you
sure--_sure_? Where can I get him? Where is he? You don't know--hasn't
been at the office all day and hasn't telephoned? He's looking--I mean
I guess he's, trying to find somebody.
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