“Well—no,” stammered Larcher, repenting.
“Yes, she has!” said Edna, with a changed manner. “But what for? Why is she concerned? There's something behind this, Tom—I can tell by your looks. Speak out, for heaven's sake! What's wrong?”
A glance at Florence Kenby's pale face did not make Larcher's task easier or pleasanter.
“I don't think there's anything seriously wrong. Davenport has been away from home for a day or two without saying anything about it to his landlady, as he usually does in such cases. That's all.”
“And didn't he send you word about breaking the engagement with you?” persisted Edna.
“No. I suppose it slipped his mind.”
“And neither you nor the landlady has any idea where he is?”
“Not when I saw her last—about half an hour ago.”
“Well!” ejaculated Edna. “That is a mysterious disappearance!”
The landlady had used the same expression. Such was Larcher's mental observation in the moment's silence that followed,—a silence broken by a low cry from Florence Kenby.