If that told him that she did not know where Chrystie was, it also told that she connected him with the girl's absence. He controlled his alarm and drew his shaken faculties into order. "Looking for your sister!" he repeated. "Looking for her _here_?" "Yes." She advanced a step, her eyes sternly fixed on him. He did not like the look, there was question and accusation in it, but he was able to inject a dignified surprise into his answer. "I don't understand you, Miss Alston. Why should you come to _me_ at this hour to find your sister?" He did it well, wounded pride, hostility under unjust suspicion, strong in his voice. "Chrystie's gone," she answered. "She told me she was going to friends, and I find she isn't there. She deceived me and I had reason--I heard something tonight that made me think--" She stopped. It was horrible to state to this man, now frankly abhorred, what she suspected. There was a slight pause while he waited with an air of cold forbearance. "Well," he said at length, "would it be too much trouble to tell me what you think?" She had to say it: "That she had gone to you." "To _me_?" He was incredulous, astounded. "Yes. Had run away with you." "What reason had you for thinking such a thing?" She made a step forward, ignoring the question. "She isn't here--I can see that--but where is she?" "How should I know?" "Because you must know something about her, because you _do_ know. Chrystie of herself wouldn't tell me lies; someone's made her do it, _you've_ made her do it." "Really, Miss Alston--" But she wouldn't give him time to finish. "Mr. Mayer, you've got to tell me where she is. I won't leave here till you do." He had always felt and disliked a quality of cool reasonableness in this girl. Now he saw a fighting courage, a thing he had never guessed under that gentle exterior, and he liked it even less. Had he followed his inclination he would have treated her with the rough brutality he had awarded Pancha, but he had to keep his balance and discover how much she knew. "Miss Alston, we're at cross-purposes. We'd come to a better understanding if I knew what you're talking about. You spoke of finding out something tonight. If you'll tell me what it is I'll be able to answer you more intelligently." She thrust her hand into her belt, drew out a folded paper and handed it to him. "_That._ I found it when I came back from the opera." He recognized the writing at once, and before he was halfway through his rage against Pancha was boiling. When he had finished he could not trust his voice, and staring at the paper, he heard her say: