“Where is Halsey?” she demanded. Above her plain black gown her eyes looked big and somber, and the rapid drive had brought no color to her face. I got up and drew forward a chair. “He has not come back,” I said quietly. “Sit down, child; you are not strong enough for this kind of thing.” I don’t think she even heard me. “He has not come back?” she asked, looking from me to Gertrude. “Do you know where he went? Where can I find him?” “For Heaven’s sake, Louise,” Gertrude burst out, “tell us what is wrong. Halsey is not here. He has gone to the station for Mr. Jamieson. What has happened?” “To the station, Gertrude? You are sure?” “Yes,” I said. “Listen. There is the whistle of the train now.” She relaxed a little at our matter-of-fact tone, and allowed herself to sink into a chair. “Perhaps I was wrong,” she said heavily. “He—will be here in a few moments if—everything is right.” We sat there, the three of us, without attempt at conversation. Both Gertrude and I recognized the futility of asking Louise any questions: her reticence was a part of a role she had assumed. Our ears were strained for the first throb of the motor as it turned into the drive and commenced the climb to the house. Ten minutes passed, fifteen, twenty. I saw Louise’s hands grow rigid as they clutched the arms of her chair. I watched Gertrude’s bright color slowly ebbing away, and around my own heart I seemed to feel the grasp of a giant hand. Twenty-five minutes, and then a sound. But it was not the chug of the motor: it was the unmistakable rumble of the Casanova hack. Gertrude drew aside the curtain and peered into the darkness. “It’s the hack, I am sure,” she said, evidently relieved. “Something has gone wrong with the car, and no wonder—the way Halsey went down the hill.” It seemed a long time before the creaking vehicle came to a stop at the door. Louise rose and stood watching, her hand to her throat. And then Gertrude opened the door, admitting Mr. Jamieson and a stocky, middle-aged man. Halsey was not with them. When the door had closed and Louise realized that Halsey had not come, her expression changed. From tense watchfulness to relief, and now again to absolute despair, her face was an open page. “Halsey?” I asked unceremoniously, ignoring the stranger. “Did he not meet you?” “No.” Mr. Jamieson looked slightly surprised. “I rather expected the car, but we got up all right.” “You didn’t see him at all?” Louise demanded breathlessly. Mr. Jamieson knew her at once, although he had not seen her before. She had kept to her rooms until the morning she left. “No, Miss Armstrong,” he said. “I saw nothing of him. What is wrong?” “Then we shall have to find him,” she asserted. “Every instant is precious. Mr. Jamieson, I have reason for believing that he is in danger, but I don’t know what it is. Only—he must be found.” The stocky man had said nothing. Now, however, he went quickly toward the door.