He was beginning, lately, to regard this room of his as a kind of Confessional, and every knock interested him.
"Come!" he called.
Gaston strode in. Whatever the night had meant to him, his face bore little trace of anything but stern purpose.
"Good morning, Drew," he said quietly. "Joyce Lauzoon has left my house. Can you tell me anything about her?"
"Very little, Gaston." The onslaught, so direct and unerring, rather took Drew's breath, but he caught himself in time. "Lay off your coat," he said cordially, "and draw up to the fire. The cold seems to be increasing."
Gaston flung hat and coat from him, and pulled a chair nearer the blaze.
"It will continue to grow colder from now on until the break-up. Drew, I cannot waste time, nor have I any inclination to mince matters. I know that you have, in no small measure, influenced Joyce Lauzoon's thought. I know she has spoken of the effect of your words upon her life and, finding her gone upon my return, I naturally come to you thinking that perhaps—and from the highest motives—you may have said something to her that has led her to take this step.
"Whatever has been said, has been said by some one who could affect her as one speaking, if you can understand, from my side of the question. No one else could have any power over her."
"Gaston, I have not seen, nor have I had any communication with Joyce Lauzoon, since you left this last time. While you were away before, she came to me, and I talked with her as I felt should, under the circumstances."
"I know all about that"; a sharp line formed on Gaston's forehead; "it was indirectly on account of that conversation between you that I left so abruptly again. Pardon me, Drew, but don't you think your aunt or your sister—might have followed up your line of argument by—their own?"