“Yes, Mr. Van Rensselaer. Will you tell me, is it true that your son is away and you do not know where he is?”
The father gave her a startled look.
“Why should you ask that?”
“Because I happened to read an item in the paper this morning that implied that. If it is not true, just tell me, and I will go about my own affairs. I did not want to come here. I thought I ought to.”
“But if it were true, why should that interest you?”
“Because I was there at the time of the accident,” she spoke in a low clear voice, very haughtily, her manner quite aloof. “I thought perhaps you might not know.”
“Accident?” he said sharply. “Step into this room please, won’t you? We shall not be disturbed in here.”
He drew a deep, luxurious chair for her before a softly flickering fire, and turned on the electric light, looking keenly into her face.
“Now, will you first tell me who you are?”
Bessie was quite herself again. She was resolved to tell her story clearly in every detail, as quickly as possible, and then leave this dreadful house, forever she hoped. How awful that she should be mixed up in a thing like this and be so misunderstood.