"I'm glad you came, Courtney," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "Lucinda will be pleased. Does she know you're here?" "I sent word up, but if she doesn't feel like--" "She'll want to see you. We're starting out again. Down the river." (His voice shook a little.) "My soul,--boy,--you look as white as a sheet. Here,--take a good swig of this. It's some rye that Steve White brought over. We all needed it. Help yourself. You've been overdoing a little today, Courtney. You're not fit for this sort of--That's right! That will brace you up. You needed it, my boy." Courtney drained half a tumbler of whiskey neat. He choked a little. "I guess we'd better be starting, Amos," said Steve White. "Take me along with you, Mr. Vick," cried Courtney, squaring his shoulders. "I can't stand being idle while--" "You'd catch your death of cold," interrupted Vick, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder. "It's mighty fine of you and I--I sha'n't forget it. But you're not fit for an all night job like this. I feel sort of responsible for you, my boy. Your mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you, and this is a time when we've got to think about the mothers. Good night,--God bless you, Courtney." "Good night, Amos." The men trooped heavily out of the kitchen door. Presently he heard the chugging of automobile engines and then the roar as they sped off down the road. He returned to the parlour. The whiskey had given him fresh confidence. The elderly woman was talking to a couple of men in the hall. From the scraps of conversation he was able to pick up, he gathered that they were reporters from the city. She invited him into the room. "We would prefer a very recent picture," one of the men was saying. "Something taken within the last few weeks, if possible. A snap-shot will do, Madam." The speaker was a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed spectacles. His companion was much the younger of the two. The latter bowed to Thane, who had taken a position before the fireplace and was regarding the strangers with interest. "I'll have to speak to Mrs. Vick," murmured the woman. "I don't know as she would want Rosabel's picture printed in the papers." "It would be of incalculable assistance, Madam, in case she has run away from home. We have an idea that she may have planted those garments in the boat in order to throw people off the track." "Oh, she--she wouldn't have done that," cried the woman. "She couldn't be so heartless." "You overlook the possibility that her mind may be affected. Dementia frequently takes the form of--er--you might say unnatural cunning." "I'll speak to Mrs. Vick. There's a scrap-book of Kodak pictures there on the table. I was looking through it today. She and her brother, Cale, made heaps of pictures. You might be looking through it while I go upstairs." Thane was lighting a cigarette. "Have you told Miss Crown that I am here?" asked he, as she started toward the stairs.