"Yes." She advanced a step, her eyes sternly fixed on him. He did not like the look, there was question and accusation in it, but he was able to inject a dignified surprise into his answer.
"I don't understand you, Miss Alston. Why should you come to me at this hour to find your sister?"
He did it well, wounded pride, hostility under unjust suspicion, strong in his voice.
"Chrystie's gone," she answered. "She told me she was going to friends, and I find she isn't there. She deceived me and I had reason—I heard something tonight that made me think—" She stopped. It was horrible to state to this man, now frankly abhorred, what she suspected. There was a slight pause while he waited with an air of cold forbearance.
"Well," he said at length, "would it be too much trouble to tell me what you think?"
She had to say it:
"That she had gone to you."
"To me?" He was incredulous, astounded.
"Yes. Had run away with you."
"What reason had you for thinking such a thing?"