If looks could kill, the look Elise got from Doctor Lewis Pryne in return for her own one question would have struck her down on the spot.—So she said later, when she told the whole story of what she called the “inquest” to Clare,—told it with tears and to the accompaniment of many careful promptings. She knew from that look that her idea of Miss Farwell as a possible suicide angered the doctor even more than it frightened herself. So she said hastily, shaking more than ever, but the color a little returning to her blanched cheeks, “Or it might be she’s kidnaped. Mrs. Farwell is one of the richest women in the State of Massachusetts. It said so in the Transcript. They might know she would give anything to get Miss Farwell back. Do you think it’s a kidnaping, sir? Oh, poor Mrs. Farwell! This will break her heart!”
She was weeping openly by then. But she hoped it would be she and no other who told Mrs. Farwell the news. And certainly nobody could get ahead of her in telling it to the other stage-hands at Green Doors. It would be strange if anybody got ahead of her, since she was the very first to learn of the disappearance and the inquest had begun with her, so to speak.
“You say Mr. Farwell sleeps downstairs? Take me to his room. Hurry!”
Again the doctor had her by an elbow, pushing her ahead of him. Again they were on the stairs, only this time he was propelling her downward. But in spite of the steady pressure of the doctor’s fingers on her elbow, and his air of a perfect right to command, she found the courage to suggest, “Hadn’t we better tell Mrs. Farwell, sir? Mr. Farwell won’t like being disturbed at this hour. Mrs. Farwell won’t mind. She’s a lovely woman.”
All the doctor said to that was, “Mr. Farwell’s room. Which way?” They were at the foot of the stairs.
But Elise never told Lewis which way, for he had dropped her arm. No, more than that, he actually pushed her away. Petra was coming toward them through the great hall from the street door. She had left it wide open behind her. The door was a wide, high plaque of golden light; and Petra against it, in her glassy frock, was more like a ghost than a girl—just that first minute.
“What is it? What is the matter, Elise? Why, good morning, Doctor Pryne.”
Yes, it was Petra, not ghostly now. Lewis’ eyes had adjusted themselves to the morning sunlight flooding the door. It was Petra all right. Reticent. Nice-mannered. Pleasant.
Lewis whirled on the staring maid. “Thanks for all you did,” he said. “Go away now.” Elise went, but no farther than the dining room; from there she heard most of what passed between the doctor and Miss Farwell and reported it concisely, in spite of excited weeping, to Mrs. Farwell herself a few minutes later.
“You didn’t sleep in your room last night, Petra. I was frightened. I am afraid I frightened the maid. Are you all right?”