"Has he prevented it—tell me that?" cried Caldegard.
And, as if in answer, the bell of Finucane's telephone jarred the nerves of all three men.
While he listened to the one-sided interview between the superintendent and the instrument on his table, Caldegard's control was in danger of breaking down altogether.
"Hold the line," said Finucane at last. "Dr. Caldegard, can you describe the dress Miss Caldegard was wearing when she disappeared?"
"I dined in town," began the father, his face like white paper.
"My brother and I," said Randal, "dined with Miss Caldegard. She wore a dinner-gown—silk—darkish green, which showed, when she moved, the crimson threads it was interwoven with."
"And her shoes?" asked Finucane.
Bellamy shook his head; it was Caldegard, now steady as a rock, who answered:
"With that frock, my daughter always wore green-bronze shoes and green stockings."
Finucane turned again to the telephone. After saying that Miss Caldegard had worn green silk shot with red, and green evening slippers, he listened for a time which kept his guests in torture of suspense. Then, "I'm here all night. But scrape the county with a tooth-comb," he said, and hung up the receiver. Swinging his chair round, he faced the two men, and spoke with gravity.