"Where is she?"
"I didn't tell you I could put my hand on her," he said. "I told you, very privately, of course, and as a great—the greatest—mark of confidence, that there were those who could."
"Well, I've got to be one of them," she said in her shortcut American way. When she saw he wasn't going to notice that observation, she went on: "Ever since I got better, I've lain in the room up there waiting for a letter from her." She had said it precisely as though her last encounter with the Schwarzenberg had been one of ordinary friendship. "I telegraphed Lady McIntyre to forward any letters, and she has. Not a thing from Greta."
"No, I dare say not," Singleton had answered.
"But why do you 'dare say not'?" Anxiety settled on her face again. "You make me all the surer of what I've been feeling so strongly that I can't sleep. Greta is in terrible need of help. All the more because of what she's done."
"And do you imagine, if she were in need of help, she'd turn to you?"
"Oh, quite certainly."
Singleton hadn't been able to repress the rejoinder: "It's a good thing, then, she can't." He wasn't the least prepared for the sensation by that innocent utterance.
"She can't!" The girl had risen, and the silk coverings fell about her feet as she stood there with frightened eyes, saying under her breath, "Why can't she?"
He did his best to soothe her. "You've just admitted you wouldn't have her free to carry out her designs."