No one spoke for a minute. She sat silent, her chin on her hands, her eyes staring past them out of the window. I had a feeling that in spite of the position she was in and what they had on her, in a sort of way she had them beaten. Their faces were glum and baffled, even the Chief had an abstracted expression like he was thinking what he ought to do with her. When he spoke it was to the Janneys: "Since Miss Maitland persists in her present pose of ignorance and denial, the best thing for us is to get together and decide on our course of action." He glanced across at me. "We’ll leave you here, Molly. Stay till we come back." Away they went, a solemn procession, trailing across the room. When the door into the main office opened I could hear Mrs. Price crying, and I watched them, catching Mrs. Janney’s words as she disappeared: "Oh, Suzanne, my poor, poor, girl! Don’t give up—don’t be discouraged—we’ll find her!" It gripped me, made a sort of prickling come in my nose and a twisty feeling in my under lip. I never could have believed that stern old Roman could have spoken so tender and loving to any one. When I looked at Miss Maitland I forgot all about suffering mothers. She’d sunk down in the chair, her head resting against its back, her eyes closed. She was as white as a corpse, and I wheeled about looking round the room for some kind of first aid and muttering, "Gee, she’s fainted!" A whisper came out of her lips: "Nothing—all right—in a minute." There was a bottle of distilled water in a corner and I went to it, drew off a glass and brought it to her. She couldn’t hold it and I took her round the shoulders and pulled her up, saying out of the inner depths of me, that’s always mushy about anything hurt and forlorn: "You, poor soul, here take this. I’m sorry for you, and I can’t help being sorry that I had to give you away." I held the glass to her lips and she drank a little. Then I let her fall back and stood watching her, and I felt mean. She raised her eyes and sent a look into mine that I’ll never forget—it made me feel meaner than a yellow dog—for it was the look of a suffering soul. "Thanks," was all she said. CHAPTER XXI—SIGNED "CLANSMEN"