"Wouldn't anyone be interested in such a sensational event? Isn't it natural? Perhaps knowing Mr. Barker personally—as I told you in Mr. Whitney's office—I'm more curious than the rest of the world, that's all."
The trembling of her hand made it impossible for her to continue drawing. She threw down the pencil and locked her fingers together, outstretched on the paper, a breath, deep taken and sudden, lifting her breast. It was pitiful, her lonely fight. I was going to say something—anything, to make her think I didn't see, when she spoke again:
"Do any of you—you men who are hunting him—ever think that he may not be able to come back?"
"Able?" I exclaimed excitedly, for now again I thought something was coming. "What do you mean by able?"
I had said—or looked—too much. With a smothered sound she jumped to her feet and before I could rise or stay her with a gesture, brushed past me and moved to the window. There, for a moment, she stood looking out, her splendid shape, crowned with its mass of black hair, in silhouette against the thin white curtains.
"Look here, Miss Whitehall," I said with grim resolution, "I've got to say something to you that you may not like, may think is butting in, but I can't help it."
"What?" came on a caught breath.
"If you know anything about Barker—his whereabouts, his inability to come back—why don't you tell it? It will help us and help you."
She wheeled round like a flash, all vehement denial.
"I—I? I didn't mean that I knew. I was only wondering, guessing. It's just as I told Mr. Whitney that day. And you seem to think I'm not open, am hiding something. Why should I do that? What motive could I have to keep secret anything I might know that would bring Mr. Barker to justice?"