"I want to speak frankly with you, Miss Allison," went on Craig gently. "Is there anything about the matter—of a personal nature—that you haven't told? I want to appeal to you. Remember, there is another life at stake, now."
She looked at us searchingly. Did she suspect that we knew something or was she herself seeking information?
"No, no," she cried. "There isn't a thing—not a thing that I know that I haven't told—nothing."
Kennedy said nothing himself, but watched her, apparently assuming that she would go on.
"Oh," she cried, "if I could only do something—anything. It might get my mind off it all. But I—I can't even cry!"
Plainly there was little except a sort of mental vivisection of her grief to be gained from her yet—even if she suspected something, of which I was not entirely sure.
We excused ourselves and left her, sunk deeply into a leather chair, her face buried in her hands, but not weeping.
"Is Mr. Allison at home?" inquired Craig as we passed out through the hall, meeting the butler at the door.
"No, sir," he replied. "He went to New York this morning, sir, and said he'd be at the Club later this afternoon."
We climbed into the car and Kennedy looked at his watch. "It's getting well along in the afternoon," he remarked. "I think I'll go over to the Club. We may find Allison there now."