"Mr. Curtiss does not think so. And if it is impossible, he, at least, has a right to know why." "Marcia has decided not; she has no wish to bring reproach to the memory of a respected man, who----" She checked herself--but she had already said too much. "Then you know why your daughter left so suddenly?" I questioned. "But an hour ago, you said you didn't know." "I did not then," she murmured. "I have no wish to know," I went on rapidly, noting her sudden pallor. "I have no right to know. But I'm here to find Miss Lawrence so that Mr. Curtiss can, at least, have a last talk with her. That seems a reasonable demand. Do you know where she is?" "No!" she answered explosively. "She is not in this house?" "Assuredly not; I have already told you she is not here." "I fancied perhaps she had returned." "Such a suspicion is absurd." "You've had no word from her?" "Not a single word." "Then it wasn't she who told you the cause of her disappearance?" "She told me nothing." I had no need to ask who it was; some instinct told me it was the maid. "And you saw her last----" "When she left me to dress, as I've already told you. I've been speaking the truth, Mr. Lester." "Pardon me," I said; "I hadn't the least doubt of it; but I'm sure you can appreciate my position, can look at it from Mr. Curtiss's side. Perhaps you suspect where Miss Lawrence is, without being absolutely certain. If you would tell me----" She stopped me with a sudden gesture; I saw that I had touched the truth. "Or, at least," I persisted, pressing my advantage, "if you know why your daughter fled, you might yourself tell Mr. Curtiss----" Again she stopped me. "The secret is not mine," she said hoarsely. "Whose is it? Who has the right to tell?" "No one!" "And you will let it wreck two lives?" I saw the spasm of pain which crossed her face. She must yield; a moment more, and I should know the secret! "To-morrow--give me till to-morrow!" she cried. "Perhaps you're right--I must think--I cannot decide now--instantly. There are so many things to consider--the dead as well as the living." "Very well," I agreed. "I will call to-morrow morning----" "At eleven--not before." "To-morrow at eleven, then. And I hope you'll decide, Mrs. Lawrence, to help me all you can. The living come before the dead." She bowed without replying, and seeing how deadly white she was, I checked the words which rose to my lips and let myself out into the hall. The maid was standing just outside the door. I wondered how much she had heard of what had passed within. "One moment," I said, as she started for the stairway, and I stepped again into Miss Lawrence's room. It had grown too dark there to see anything distinctly, for this room was not flooded, as her mother's had been, by the last rays of the sun, but in a moment I switched on the light. The maid stared from the threshold, her face dark with anger, but not daring to interfere.