The Lonely Bride by Fred M. White

Grace stood turning the letter over in her hand and trying to grasp the true inwardness of it. Restless and uneasy as she was, she was bound to be more or less satisfied with the result of the last few hours' work. There was always the fear that she might break down, as she had already been tried almost as far as endurance would go. She had telephoned to the police at Leverton, with full instructions, and all she could do was to sit down and quietly possess her soul in patience until she could see the general and ascertain what his note really meant.

At the same time, it was dreadfully trying to linger there in the house while so much remained to be done. She felt now what a blessed thing it would be if she had some friend to confide in. Her own common sense told her that it would be all the better if the authorities could know something of the real reason why Max had been so mysteriously spirited away. But this confession would necessarily involve a discussion of her father's private affairs, and Grace naturally shrank from this. Still, she could, perhaps, confide in the general, who was the soul of honor. Besides, the general really ought to know.