"I don't know, miss."
"You haven't heard him?"
"No, miss. I've been upstairs, 'elping with the beds."
"Oh--thank you, Gladys."
The terror slipped away from her. Then it was all right. Ellen Stiles had, as usual, exaggerated. After all, she had not been there. She had heard it only at second-hand. She hesitated for a moment, then went to the study door. Outside she hesitated again, then she went in.
To her amazement her father was sitting, just as he had always sat, at his table. He looked up when she entered, there was no sign upon him of any trouble. His face was very white, stone-white, and it seemed to her that for months past the colour had been draining from it, and now at last all colour was gone. A man wearing a mask. She could fancy that he would put up his hands and suddenly slip it from him and lay it down upon the table. The eyes stared through it, alive, coloured, restless.
"Well, Joan, what is it?"
She stammered, "Nothing, father. I only wanted to see--whether--that--"
"Yes? Is any one wanting to see me?"
"No--only some one told me that you...I thought--"