Fessenden glanced at Kitty. “What does she say, Marie?” he asked.
“Nothing that I can understand, m’sieu; but always low cries of fear, and sometimes she murmurs, ‘I must go away! I cannot again answer those dreadful questions. I shall betray my secret.’ Over and over she mutters that.”
Fessenden began to grow excited. Surely this was evidence, and Cicely’s departure seemed to emphasize it. Without another word he went in search of Miss Morton.
“Did you know Miss Dupuy was going away?” he said abruptly to her.
“Yes,” she replied. “The poor girl is completely worn out. For the last few days she has been looking over Madeleine’s letters and papers and accounts, and she is really overworked, besides the fearful nervous strain we are all under.”
“Where has she gone?”
“I don’t know. I meant to ask her to leave an address, but she said she would write to me as soon as she reached her destination, and I thought no more about it.”
“Miss Morton, she has run away. Some evidence has come to light that makes it seem possible she may be implicated in Madeleine’s death, and her sudden departure points toward her guilt.”
“Guilt! Miss Dupuy? Oh, impossible! She is a strange and emotional little creature, but she couldn’t kill anybody. She isn’t that sort.”
“I’m getting a little tired of hearing that this one or that one ‘isn’t that sort.’ Do you suppose anybody in decent society would ever be designated as one who is that sort? Unless the murderer was some outside tramp or burglar, it must have been some one probably not ‘of that sort.’ But, Miss Morton, we must find Miss Dupuy, and quickly. When did she go?”