“Mrs. Lawrence P. Atkins.”
“Mrs. Lawrence P. Atkins,” she repeated. “And you cannot find her?”
“We have not yet been able to do so.”
“This is too dreadful; how I pity the poor husband.” And her eyes sought her mother, and rested on her with an expression I could not fathom.
The detective stood watching the girl for a moment, then, with a low bow, finally took himself off. My parting nod was very curt. Could any one have been more awkward, more tactless, more indiscreet, than he had been during his conversation with Miss Derwent? Was the man drunk? And what did he mean by talking about the Atkins’s affairs in this way?
As the girl turned to say good-bye I was struck by a subtle change that had come over her; a great calm seemed to have settled upon her and a strange, steady light burnt in her eyes.
As I was anxious to have a private talk with the Doctor, I jumped into an automobile with him, for he had only just enough time to catch his train.
“Well, Doctor Storrs, what do you think of the young lady’s case?”
“That girl is no more insane than I am, Fortescue. She is suffering from some terrible shock, but even now she has more self-control than nine women out of ten. What kind of a shock she has had I don’t know, but am sure it is connected in some way with the Rosemere murder. If you ever do discover its exact nature, mark my words, you will find she has been through some ghastly experience and has borne up with amazing fortitude.”