“You think his leaving in this way means that he’s in some kind of trouble?”
“In dreadful trouble.”
“And you don’t know why?”
“No more than you do!” she repeated.
I pondered, trying to avoid her entreating eyes. “But at this hour—come, do consider! I don’t know Cranch so awfully well. How will he take it? You say he made a scene yesterday about that silly business of the architect’s going to his house without leave....”
“That’s just it. I feel as if his going away might be connected with that.”
“But then he’s mad!” I exclaimed.
“No; not mad. Only—desperate.”
I stood irresolute. It was evident that I had to do with a woman whose nerves were in fiddle-strings. What had reduced them to that state I could not conjecture, unless, indeed, she were keeping back the vital part of her confession. But that, queerly enough, was not what I suspected. For some reason I felt her to be as much in the dark over the whole business as I was; and that added to the strangeness of my dilemma.
“Do you know in the least what you’re going for?” I asked at length.