Jem stopped dead in his tracks. “Who’s gone?”
“Miss Marcy.”
“Where? When?” demanded Jem wildly.
“Chicago. Three-thirty-seven,” returned the precise Buddy.
A pall of dimness settled down over the glaring street; hot, stark, sterile dimness through which the figures of trivial folk moved lifelessly on futile errands.
“Did she leave any message?” inquired Jem, presently, in a voice which would have been life-like from a phonograph.
“Told me to tell you.”
“Why did she go—so soon?” The query was put, not to young Mr. Higman but to a blind and juggernaut providence.
It was young Mr. Higman, however, who responded. “Afraid,” he stated.
“Afraid? What of?”