Lapelle started. His body appeared to stiffen in the saddle.
"Phineas Striker?" he exclaimed, with a swift, searching look into the speaker's eyes. Suddenly a flush mantled his cheek. "You were at Phineas Striker's last night?"
"Yes. We had lost our way and came to his place just before the storm," said Kenneth, watching his companion narrowly. Lapelle's face was a study. Doubt, indecision, even dismay, were expressed in swift succession.
"Then you must have met,—but no, it isn't likely," he said, in some confusion.
Kenneth hesitated a moment, enjoying the other's discomfiture. Then he said: "I met no one there except my sister, who also happened to be spending the night with the Strikers."
The colour faded from Lapelle's face, leaving it a sickly white. "Were you in any way responsible for—well, for her departure, Mr. Gwynne?" he demanded, his eyes flaming with swift, sudden anger.
"I was not aware of her departure until I arose this morning, Mr. Lapelle. Striker informed me that she went away before sunrise."
For a moment Lapelle glared at him suspiciously, and then gave vent to a short, contemptuous laugh.
"A thousand apologies," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I might have known you would not be consulted."
"I never laid eyes on my half-sister until last night," said Kenneth, determined to hold his temper. "It is not likely that she would have asked the advice of a total stranger, is it? Especially in so simple a matter as going home when she felt like it."