“Worried?” he repeated. “Well?”
“I want to ask you this: have you heard anything from Freistner during the last day or two?”
Fenn’s face was immovable. He still showed no signs of discomposure—his voice only was not altogether natural.
“Last day or two?” he repeated reflectively. “No, I can’t say that I have, Miss Abbeway. I needn’t remind you that we don’t risk communications except when they are necessary.”
“Will you try and get into touch with him at once?” she begged.
“Why?” Fenn asked, glancing at her searchingly.
“One of our Russian writers,” she said, “once wrote that there are a thousand eddies in the winds of chance. One of those has blown my way to-day—or rather yesterday. Freistner is above all suspicion, is he not?”
“Far above,” was the confident reply. “I am not the only one who knows him. Ask the others.”
“Do you think it possible that he himself can have been deceived?” she persisted.
“In what manner?”