“I’m through!” There was the snap of absolute finality in the low, quiet voice.
Clifford knew that mere words could not change the decision made behind that lean, grim visage; so he turned to the matter that had brought him there.
“Have you seen your sister to-day?”
“Haven’t seen Mary in six months.”
“You mean you don’t know where she’s staying?” exclaimed Clifford.
“Down South in the woods somewhere,—God knows why,—doing a stretch of self-imposed solitary.”
The obviously honest answer sharpened Clifford’s already poignant uneasiness. “Slant-Face, I saw her an hour ago.”
“In New York?”
“At the Grand Alcazar.” And then he added: “She was with Peter Loveman.”
Even the stoic Slant-Face started. “With Peter Loveman!—the lawyer that beat Bradley’s case for him! What the devil does that mean?”