“She’s missing,” Mr. Dorrance added. He flashed us a queer look and we stared at him blankly. “It means nothing, of course,” he added. “She’s been gone only an hour.”
But we all knew that it did mean something. For myself I recall a chill of inward horror; a revulsion as though around me were pressing unknown things; unseeable, imponderable things menacing us all.
“Eunice missing! But father, how missing?”
He put his arm around Jane. “Don’t look so frightened, my dear child.”
He held her against him. If only all of us could have anticipated the events of the next few days. If only we could have held Jane, guarded her, as her father was affectionately holding her now!
DON exclaimed, “But the Chief of Police gave you details?”
“There weren’t many to give.” He lighted a cigarette and smiled at his trembling hands. “I don’t know why I should feel this way, but I do. I suppose—well, it’s what you have told me to-night. I don’t understand it—I can’t think it was all your imagination.”
“But that girl, Eunice,” I protested.
“Nothing—except she isn’t at home where she should be. At eleven o’clock she told her parents she was going to retire. Presumably she went to her room. At eleven-thirty her mother passed her door. It was ajar and a bedroom light was lighted. Mrs. Arton opened the door to say good night to Eunice. But the girl was not there.”
He stared at us. “That’s all. There is so much hysteria in the air now, that Mr. Arton was frightened and called upon the police at once. The Artons have been telephoning to everyone they know. It isn’t like Eunice to slip out at night—or is it, Jane?”