"Perfectly," I said. There could be no doubting his utter truthfulness. "And your family history?"
"Is neither long nor brilliant. My father and mother both died when I was a baby. I was raised by my grandparents."
"They lived in New York?"
"No; on Long Island. My grandfather's name was John Curtiss. He managed an estate belonging to a New York banker. He was an honest and honourable man."
"And he is dead?"
"Yes; he and his wife have been dead ten years and more."
"You have no brothers or sisters?"
"No; nor any other near relatives."
That was the end of that theory, then. If the secret did not concern Curtiss, it must concern Miss Lawrence herself. More and more I felt that she was the victim of a plot. Of the maid's complicity, I had not the shadow of a doubt—but was Mrs. Lawrence a party to it, too?
I turned back to her. She was, apparently, so busy with her own thoughts that she paid no heed to what was passing. How explain her calmness, her lack of interest? How, except on the theory that she knew where her daughter was, had assisted in her disappearance and approved of it? I felt my blood warm suddenly in Curtiss's behalf. If he had been the victim of an adventuress, it should be my business to expose her!