“If it were anything definite. Just to take up their time with a lot of vague surmises is the last thing they want. People get stampeded in a case like this, butt in with all sorts of silly leads and theories.” He gave her an uneasy side glance. “Are you imagining that you know something you ought to tell?” “No, oh, no. But I keep thinking of it, all kinds of possibilities.” “Can’t you stop thinking of it? I wish you would.” “Oh, Hugh, how can any one? It fills up your mind so that nothing else can get in. It would be so terrible to have to confess something against another person.” He nodded and murmured, “Terrible, all right.” “I don’t see how one could do it. Now, you, if you were in that position--had suspicions of some one?” “I don’t tell them, that’s not my province. I’m here to assist, not to direct them.” “Just say what you’re sure of?” “Exactly. What I know, what I can vouch for as fact. I wish to God I _could_ furnish some that would lead us in the right direction.” She said nothing, her cheek against his shoulder, her head bent down till her face was hidden from him. He looked at the grass at his feet in harassed survey of his obligation: “I’m the only person here they know anything about, that they care to trust. It’s a devilish position, trying to hide what you think, trying to state only what you know, fairly, without personal feeling or prejudice. But it’s up to me to do it till we round up something. I don’t want to get anybody in wrong, but, good lord, if I knew any one was--didn’t guess, was _sure_ of it--I’d give the information up just as quick as I could get across to that library.” Her hope was over and she saw now how wild it had been. With a heart like stone she sat by him, feeling the contact of his body, his arm pressed against her side, knowing herself as far removed from his comfort and help as though an ocean lay between them. The light in the garden was fading, an even soft dusk was gathering. There were no splendors of sunset to-night, day was dying without ceremonial rites. The hurrying clouds had thickened and were a sagging gray pall with rays of fog drifting below. Suddenly the doorway of the living-room sprang into the dimness, an illumined square, and Miss Pinkney was visible moving about lighting the lamps. “No moon to-night,” said Bassett, and getting up, drew her to her feet. “Come, let’s go in. It’s too chilly for you out here.” It was not till they had gathered round the supper table that Rawson’s absence was revealed. Miss Pinkney, coming in with the teapot, saw the empty chair and frowned. Though subdued, her spirit was not broken, and she could not tamely submit to these minions of the law disregarding the meal hours. “Is Mr. Rawson coming to his supper?” she remarked with an acid note. “Mr. Rawson’s away on business,” Williams answered. “You can keep something for him.” No more was said and the meal proceeded on its dismal way. XIV