One thing was clear, at least: he could stay here no longer as the Cortlandts' guest—he had already incurred an obligation which he would have difficulty in discharging. Yet how could he explain his change of front? Mrs. Cortlandt, he felt sure, would understand and come to his assistance with good advice, but he shrank instinctively from laying the facts before her husband. It was a deuced unpleasant necessity, and he detested unpleasant necessities—necessities of any sort, in fact. Still, there was nothing else for it, so, conquering his sense of humiliation as best he could, he called up the Cortlandts' suite.
Edith answered, saying that her husband was out; then, in response to his request, she came down herself.
"What has gone wrong? Why this face of tragedy?" she inquired, as she seated herself beside him.
"I've received my Declaration of Independence. I've heard from my dad."
A look of quick understanding drove away the smile she had brought him, and her manner was one of grave sympathy as she took the letter he handed her.
She was clad in a crisp morning gown he had never seen, and he thought it became her extremely well. She looked very cool, very fresh, very much the fine lady. All in all, she seemed a person whose friendly interest might compensate for many woes.
"Well!" she remarked. "You do seem to be in trouble. What does it mean?"
Kirk told her everything without reserve, then showed her the newspapers in his hand. She scrutinized them with a quiet seriousness that seemed to make his trouble her own. "After all," she said at last, "if worse comes to worst, you can prove your innocence."
"I'm not so sure."
"Nonsense! Those boys can be found. What puzzles me is that Locke person. Who is he? Why was he followed? What has become of him?"