Once, looking across at the Major, she did stop long enough to say in an undertone to Nat:
“Major Dale looks dreadfully, doesn’t he, Nat—like a ghost at a feast?”
“If you call this a feast,” Nat grumbled. “Seems more like a funeral to me.”
After dinner Dorothy sought out her Aunt Winnie and, drawing her into a corner, spoke to her about her father. Mrs. White patted the girl’s hand gently and sought to evade Dorothy’s questions.
“Your father’s general health seems unimpaired my dear,” she said. “But of course he is frightfully worried about Joe.”
“It is more than worry that makes him act as he did at dinner,” persisted Dorothy. “He hardly touched a thing. Aunt Winnie, he is on the verge of a breakdown, and you know it as well as I!”
“Perhaps I do, my dear,” sighed Mrs. White. “But I don’t see what we can do about it.”
“Except find Joe,” replied Dorothy softly. “We must find Joe!”
Early the next morning Dorothy dressed herself in her street things and slipped out of the house without awakening Tavia. What she had to do she wanted to do alone, and she feared her chum’s persistent curiosity. No one should know that Joe had been with Jack Popella on the day Haskell’s store burned down and the day when Joe himself had disappeared if it was possible for her to keep the knowledge to herself!
She did not even stop to have breakfast at home, for fear her Aunt Winnie would question her concerning her errand downtown.