CHAPTER XXIII
THE LOST VOICE
“There may be heaven; there must be hell;
Meantime there is our earth here—well!”
—Browning.
The fears of Mrs. Garcia held Barron to the house till the morning light was fully established. This was late, even for the winter season, as the rain still fell heavily, retarding the coming of day with a leaden veil.
He made his report at the police station, and then went down town to his office where business detained him till noon. It was his habit to lunch at the Lick House, but to-day he hurried back to the Garcias’, striding up the series of hills at top speed, urged on by his desire to hear news of Mariposa. He burst into the house to find it silent—the hall empty. As he was hanging his hat on the rack, young Mrs. Garcia appeared from the kitchen, her bang somewhat limp, though it was still early in the day, her face looking small and peaked after her exciting night’s vigil.
Mariposa was still asleep, she said in answer to his query. The señora had given her a powerful sleeping draft and had said that the rest would be the best restorative after such a shock. If, when she waked, she showed symptoms of suffering or prostration, they would send for the doctor.
“Have you found her paper?” she asked anxiously. “She seemed in such a way about it last night.”
He muttered a preoccupied answer, mentioning his visit to the police station.
“What was it, anyway? Do you know?” inquired the young woman who was not exempt from the weaknesses of her sex.