"My dear lady, you are alarmed and you are angry, consequently you are unjust. Whatever poor Kitty may have done I am not responsible."
"You are responsible. It's you, and men like you, who have dragged her down. You took advantage of her weakness, of her very helplessness. You've made her so that she can't believe in a man's goodness and trust herself to it."
He smiled, still with that untroubled urbanity, on the small flaming thing as she arraigned him.
"And you consider me responsible for that?" he said.
Their eyes met. "My brother is here," said she. "Would you like to see him?"
"It might be as well, perhaps. If you can find him."
She left him, and he waited five minutes, ten minutes, twenty.
She returned alone. All her defiance had gone from her, and the face that she turned to him was white with fear.
"She is not here," she said. "She went out—by that window—and she has not come in. We've searched the hotel, and we can't find her."
"And you have not found your brother?"