“Can’t you tell me where he is now?” Sydney went on in a coaxing tone. “You appear to know a good deal about him.”
“Oh, Mr.—I? Do I show it?” A terrified look came into the old lady’s eyes. Her fingers clutched tightly at each side of the doorway over which she had mounted guard.
Sydney was by this time convinced that there was some mystery about Maurice Darley, which the woman before him was seeking to conceal.
“What if he is dead?”
The old lady brought this out with a sort of triumphant tone.
“But he isn’t dead,” Sydney returned, with almost the same manner. “If he was you would have said so long ago. You see I can understand some things. But why are you so secret about him? Tell me, did you ever hear him speak of a Mr. Tyler?”
“Hush, hush!” The old lady put her fingers over her lips and advanced to Sydney as if to thrust him out of the door. “Not now. Not here,” she added in an imploring tone.
Sydney was compelled to back out of the door into the street, but he held it open partially to say:
“I must find out about Maurice Darley. It is for his good, not mine. Where can I see you about him? Will you come to my office on Chestnut Street?”
“No, no. I can’t go away,” the old lady replied.