“No, sir,” her voice rang out clearly. “I know what you mean, you are thinking of Mr. Manning. And there is another task for you. We must find Amory Manning. That man never went away, voluntarily, without sending me some word. He said he would come up here that night,—the night of Uncle’s death. He didn’t come, nor did he communicate with me in any way. That means he was unable to do so.”
“But what could have happened that would make it impossible for him to send you some word?”
“I don’t know—I can’t think, I’m sure. But he was attacked or overcome by someone who wanted him put out of the way. Mr. Manning had enemies,—that much I may tell you——”
“Do you know more? That you can not tell me?”
“No; that is, I don’t know anything,—but I have some foreboding,—oh, nothing definite, Mr. Brice, but I can’t help fearing we shall never see Amory Manning alive again!”
“I don’t want to force your confidence, but can’t you tell me a few more facts? Why has he enemies? Are they political?”
“Yes; in a way. Don’t ask me now anyway. Let us try to find Amory and if we fail, I may decide it my duty to tell you what I now withhold.”
And with this I was forced to be content. For Olive Raynor did not talk like a young, inexperienced girl, as I had thought her; she gave me now the impression of a young woman involved in weighty matters, and the trusted holder of important secrets.
“To begin with, then,” I said, “suppose we try first to find Mr. Manning,—or to learn what became of him.”
“Yes,” she agreed; “but how shall we set about it? I’ve already telephoned to several of his friends, whom I know, and none of them has seen him since that day,—the day of Uncle’s death. Thank Heaven nobody is foolish enough to blame that on him!”