"Elizabeth? No; of course not! Where is she?"
"If I knew, would I be asking you?" Blair called back furiously; "she must be here!"
"Wait. I'll come down and let you in," Nannie said; he heard a muffled colloquy back in the room, and then the window closed sharply. Far off, a church clock struck one. Blair stood with a hand on the doorknob; through the leaded side-windows he saw a light wavering down through the house; a moment later Nannie, lamp in hand, shivering in her thin dressing-gown, opened the door.
"Has she been here this evening?"
"Blair! You scare me to death! No; she hasn't been here. What is the matter? Your coat is all wet! Is it raining?"
"She isn't at the hotel, and I don't know where she is."
"Why, she's at Mr. Ferguson's, of course!"
"No, she isn't. I've been there."
"She may be at home by this time," Nannie faltered, and Blair, assenting, was just turning to rush away, when another voice said, with calm peremptoriness:
"What is the matter?"