"Where are you going?" I asked.
"I'm going to see her," he said. "You're coming, too. We'll get to the bottom of this, for Curtiss's sake. Either we'll prove it a mistake, or we'll prove beyond doubt that it's true."
Neither of us spoke during that long drive uptown. We were too depressed, too anxious. Nor did we speak as we mounted the steps of the old-fashioned brownstone and rang the bell. We were admitted. We were shown into a room on the second floor, after some delay, where, in a great padded chair, an old, old woman sat, thin and wrinkled, but with eyes preternaturally bright.
"Mrs. Heminway," Mr. Royce began directly, "we're representing Mr. Burr Curtiss. We feel that some explanation is due him of the sudden flight, three days ago, of Marcia Lawrence, whom he was to marry; and we believe that you're the one best fitted to tell us the whole story."
She did not answer for a moment, but sat peering up at us, plucking at the arms of her chair with nervous, skinny hands.
"Of course he has a right to know!" she cried, in a high, thin voice, like the note of a flute. "I thought the girl would tell him."
"But since she hasn't," said our junior, "I hope you will. I know it won't be a pleasant task——"
She stopped him with a quick, claw-like gesture.
"I have never shrunk from any duty," she said, "however unpleasant. Sit down, gentlemen. I will tell you the story."