"What do you mean?" he demanded, the dog dropping from his arms to the floor.
"She 's in bed, and half out of her mind," returned the other fiercely. "She said you 'd gone! Donaldson, if you 've hurt her—"
The boy's fists were clenched as though he were about to strike. Donaldson stood with his arms hanging limply by his side. He felt Arsdale's right to strike if he wished.
"I have n't gone," he answered.
"I don't know what has happened," Arsdale ran on heatedly, "but I want to tell you this—that as much as you 've done for me, I won't stand for your hurting her."
"Let me see her," demanded Donaldson, coming to himself.
"She won't see any one! She 's locked up in her room. She may be dead. If she is, you 've killed her!"
Arsdale half choked upon the words. It was with difficulty that he restrained himself. He was blind to everything, save that in some way this man was responsible for the girl's suffering.
"Perhaps she 'll see me. Where is she?"
Donaldson without waiting for an answer pushed past Arsdale and the latter allowed it, but followed at his heels. Donaldson knew where she was without being told. She was in the big front room where the balcony led outdoors. He went up the stairs heavily, for he knew that more depended on the next half hour than had anything so far in all this harrowing week. Though there was plenty of light he groped his way close to the wall like a blind man. At the closed door he paused to catch his breath. In the meanwhile the boy, half frantic, pounded on the panels, shouting over his shoulder,