“Oh, I hope not!” she exclaimed. “For his sake I hope not. And it’s a torture to me to see him so.” She was silent for a moment, and then went on: “I have given him every opportunity to confide in me, but he will not. And so, Mr. Scanlon, I am like a stranger. Danger, even death, perhaps, is hovering over the house, and I know nothing except the little that comes to me by chance.”
“Since I’ve been here I’ve felt about the same way,” said Scanlon, “though, of course, I haven’t so much reason as you.”
“I could not speak to Frederic, and I must not speak to the servants. So,” said Miss Hohenlo, “there was left only—Grace.”
Again there came the pause, this time longer than before. Finally Scanlon said:
“Well?”
She came nearer to him. Never had she looked plainer or more angular; never had her eyes seemed duller or her hair with less life.
“But I could not speak to her. There was a something which stood between us—perhaps the same feeling which you had—and it held me back.” One of the delicate hands went out and rested on Scanlon’s sleeve. “What is it?” she asked.
But the big man could only shake his head.
“At times,” said Miss Hohenlo, “she comes to me with the strangest requests. They seem to be without meaning, and yet, somehow, I am afraid of them.”
“Requests?”