"Sit down, Curtiss, and pull yourself together," interposed our junior, catching him by the arm. "This won't do. I just wired you to come on. You must have met the boy."
"I believe I did knock over a youngster just outside the door."
"Well, there's no damage done, I guess. Since you're here, Lester can go right ahead with the story."
"But one thing first," interrupted our client. "Did you find out where she went, Mr. Lester?"
"No," I answered. "But I have a message from her."
"Thank God!" he murmured, and sank back in his chair. I guessed what his fear had been—that Marcia Lawrence was no longer among the living.
Looking at him closely, I was shocked at the change a single day had wrought in him. His eyes were bloodshot from want of sleep, his face pale and drawn, his hair and beard unkempt. In a word, he had ceased to be the handsome, well-groomed man the world knew as Burr Curtiss.
I related my doings briefly, including only the essential points. Then I placed the message in his hands. He read it, his face quivering.
"But this tells us nothing," he said hoarsely, looking up at me with piteous eyes.
"Except that she was in New York this morning—and wants to fight her battle out by herself."