"We live in Washington, Mr. Jenison, my mother and I. My father's home is in New York. Some time, while we are here, I hope you won't mind telling me something of your experiences with the—the circus. My father often spoke of you. He said they called you—was it Jack Snipe?"
David was taken aback. The girl's frankness amazed, unsettled him.
"A name given me by one of the performers," he murmured.
"The proprietor's daughter, Christine Braddock. Oh, you must not be surprised. I know her."
"You know her?" he asked quickly.
"That is, I once knew her. She came out to my father's stables years ago to practice her riding. I used to envy her so! You see, I wanted to be a circus rider." She laughed very frankly.
"Do you know what has become of her?" he asked, risking everything. He watched carefully to catch the expression in her face.
"No," she replied, hesitating. "I have not seen my father since our return from Europe."
The words were ominous. He experienced a sinking sensation.
She continued: "I supposed that you knew something of our family history, Mr. Jenison." He looked sufficiently blank. "My father and mother lead absolutely separate lives. It happened four years ago. Perhaps you have forgotten."