"Elsie?" The man's voice was sharply questioning.
"Yes, Elsie—my poor, dead sister."
"Go on."
"Yes, yes. I must go on." Monica drew a deep breath. "I can't understand. I don't seem to—— Oh, tell me where he is. My Frank, my poor Frank, Elsie's boy. The boy I have brought up to manhood, the boy I have cared for all these years, the boy I have struggled and fought for. He—he is—lost. He has been spirited away as though he had never existed. And—I am told by the detectives to ask you where he is."
Hendrie's eyes were upon the carpet. He was no longer looking into the troubled face before him.
"Tell me," he said sharply; "when did you see him last?"
Monica no longer hesitated. Her husband's manner had become suddenly compelling.
"It was the last night I spent at Deep Willows," she said at once. "Just before you came home."
Hendrie raised his eyes. They were full of a dawning horror.
"The truth does demand," he cried almost fiercely. "Tell me! Tell me—as quickly as you can."