"She's disappeared—anyhow, she's gone. Yesterday, when I saw you was laid up and couldn't help me, I 'phoned her ranch; somebody answered in Spanish, and from what I could make out they don't know where she is."
Dave wondered if he had understood Strange aright, or if this could be another trick of his own disordered brain. Choosing his words carefully, he said: "Do you mean to tell me that she's missing and they haven't given an alarm? I reckon you didn't understand the message, did you?"
Strange shrugged. "Maybe I didn't. Suppose you try. You sabe the lingo."
Dave agreed, although reluctantly, for at this moment he wished nothing less than to undertake a mental effort, and he feared, in spite of Strange's statement, that he might hear Alaire's voice over the wire. That would be too much; he felt as if he could not summon the strength to control himself in such a case. Nevertheless, he went to the telephone, leaving Phil to wait.
When he emerged from the house a few moments later, it was with a queer, set look upon his face.
"I got 'em," he said. "She's gone—left three days ago."
"Where did she go?"
"They wouldn't tell me."
"They WOULDN'T?" Strange looked up sharply.
"Wouldn't or couldn't." The men eyed each other silently; then Phil inquired: