There was Inez Mendoza, alone, pale and agitated.
"Tell me, Professor Kennedy," she cried, her hands clasped before her in frantic appeal, "tell me—it isn't true—is it? He wasn't there—no—no—no!"
She would have fainted if Craig had not sprung forward and caught her in time to place her in our only easy-chair.
"Walter," he said, "quick—that bottle of aromatic spirits of ammonia over there—the second from the left."
I handed it to him, and threw open the window to allow the fresh air to blow in. As I did so one of the papers Kennedy had been studying blew off the table, and, as luck would have it, fell almost before her. She saw it, and in her hypersensitive condition recognized it instantly.
"Oh—that anonymous letter!" she cried. "Tell me—you do not think that—the friend of my father's that it warned me to beware of—was—"
She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to do so.
"Please, Senorita," pleaded and soothed Kennedy, "try to be calm. What has happened? Tell me. What is it?"
The ammonia and the fresh air seemed to have done their work, for she managed to brace herself, gripping the arms of the chair tightly and looking up searchingly into Craig's face.
"It's about Chester," she managed to gasp; then seemed unable to go on.