"Purely business," he murmured, then again turned to George. "What Miss Whitehall says would bear out the general idea that it was that last interview which drove Harland to desperation." As they spoke she looked from one to the other, a glance that passed over both faces as quick as a lightning flash. Before they could turn, it was gone and her eyes had a dense, dead look as if she had dropped some inner veil over them. Then I _knew_ that the brain behind that smooth white forehead was something more than alert, it was on its guard, wary and watchful. The knowledge made me suddenly speak. I wanted to see, I had to see, if that careful control would hold under a direct question about her lover. "How about Barker? How did _he_ act when you saw him that afternoon?" She shifted slightly to see me better. "Oh, perfectly naturally. There was nothing in the least unusual about him." "Barker was a man of iron," said the chief. "His mental disturbances didn’t show on the outside. Besides," he gave a wave of his hand toward her—"this young lady knew him only slightly." He turned quickly to her, "I’m right, am I not?" "Perfectly," she fixed her eyes on him and kept them there, black and unfathomable. "My acquaintance with him was simply that of an agent with a customer." For a moment I couldn’t look at her; I got up and going to the window fumbled with the blind. The man she’d tried to run away with—and telling her lie with that smooth steadiness! It was only love could give such nerve. Behind me I heard the old man’s voice: "A horrible affair. It was fortunate for you you escaped the sight of it." "Ah—" it was a sound of shuddering protest—"_that_ would have been too much. I knew nothing of it till I saw the papers the next morning. It made me ill—I was at home for several days." "Well," said he, "I’m in hopes we’re going to straighten things out before long." I turned from the window and moved back, wondering what he was going to say. She was looking again at her purse, snapping and unsnapping the clasp. "How can you do that?" she asked. "Haven’t you read in the papers that Barker’s been seen in Philadelphia?" "Ah yes," she murmured, her glance still on the purse. "But nobody’s found him yet." "Give us time—give us time. These vanishing gentlemen like a change of air. They don’t stay long under our hospitable flag. Their goal is Canada." For a moment she had no reply. You could see it, you could see the effort with which she held her statue-calm pose, but a deep breath lifted her breast and the edge of her teeth showed on her underlip. "Canada," said the old man with a comfortable roll in his big chair, "is our modern American equivalent of the medieval sanctuary." She’d got her nerve back—I never saw such grit. She gave him a smile, not jolly like his, but defiant.