"Where was you?" says he. "What do you mean?"
"Colonel," says I, "she was here after midnight. I ain't been to bed at all tonight."
"What did she say to you? Why didn't you go to bed? Where is she? What have you done?"
"I ain't done nothing," says I. "I've been trying to talk to you for days, and I couldn't. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to interfere in any girl's business and this shore is hers."
"It's hers?" says he, cold and hard. "I'm in this too. There's something in here that's got to come out. Come!" says he.
He motioned to me and I followed him up the staircase to the part of the house that was Bonnie Bell's—the second story and on the corner toward the lake. She had a fine, big bedroom, with wide windows, all the wood in white, and all the silks a sort of pale green.
We walked into the room; and he didn't knock. The room was empty! Her bed hadn't been slept in. On a chair, smoothed out, was her pale blue dress, which I remembered.
"That's the one she wore last," says I, pointing to it. "She's changed it."
"She's—she's gone!" says her pa. "Gone—without asking me—without telling me! Where's she gone? Tell me, Curly. Has—has anybody—— My girl—where is she? Tell me!"
He had hold of my shoulders then and shook me; and I ain't no chicken neither.