“Oh, well, it really makes no difference,” Meredith assured her carelessly. “Since I have given up the idea of going out to-day. Indeed, I think I shall try to take a long nap this afternoon. I did not sleep at all well last night.”
With this plausible excuse, she managed to throw the sentinel maid off guard, and, as Mrs. Schilder went out in the automobile, was able to effect two more trips to the attic undiscovered, although, unfortunately, without result. Each time she was informed that Captain Grail had not yet returned to the post.
So the long afternoon wore away fruitlessly, and with the passing of the hours passed also that feeling of buoyancy which Meredith had experienced in the morning, and which, no doubt, was largely due to the excitement of finding herself actively involved in the game.
Now, with the reaction, she was growing dispirited and apprehensive once more. Nothing seemed to have been accomplished. Her father’s whereabouts still continued a mystery; and, in addition, she now began to worry over Grail’s protracted absence. What if something had happened to him, too? Indeed, was it not almost certain that something must have happened to him?
Darker and darker grew her misgivings as she gave rein to her imagination, until, when Mrs. Schilder at last came in, she found the poor girl a picture of disconsolate woe.
“Is there no news?” Meredith raised her wan face in piteous question. Even from this deceitful source she might gather something in the way of a glance or expression.
But Mrs. Schilder’s countenance revealed nothing.
“I am sorry,” she said, “but the investigation seems to have come to a standstill. Every clew has been carefully worked out, the officers tell me, but to absolutely no avail. However,” she dropped her gloved hand on Meredith’s shoulder, “you must not let that discourage you, my dear. No news is always good news, remember; and no one concerned is lacking in activity in any direction. Mr. Schilder, indeed, is so deeply concerned that he has invited all the officers of the post to meet him here to-night and discuss what measures shall next be undertaken, and he says that unless they can show him a reasonable promise of success he will report the disappearance to the civil authorities.
“He told me to tell you of this conference, my dear,” she went on, “and ask you if you did not want to be present; although I told him that I hardly deemed it wise, since theories and conjectures are sure to be advanced which cannot help but be harrowing to you.”
“No.” Meredith’s tremors ceased with the offer of a change of action. Major Appleby might be bombastic, and Lieutenant Hemingway a fool, but surely there was some one among the officers—blunt old Dobbs, the surgeon, maybe—to whom she could whisper her suspicions.