I gazed down at the darkened city, and for the thousand-and-first time went wearily over the events of that terrible time, seeking for the faintest clew.
The first intimation that I had had of impending tragedy had come from Mrs. Furneau, the woman who had taken Margaret into New York. I had been working hard on a portrait and had hardly missed the child. But about seven o’clock, an hour after she should have been home, the telephone rang and a gasping voice came to me over the long-distance wire: “Is Margaret with you? Did she come home?”
Mrs. Furneau sounded nearly distracted, but I had managed to drag the details out of her at length. They had gone to the luncheon and then to the matinée in a party, she told me. A little after five, they had left the others and started for home in Mrs. Furneau’s car. Then, at 34th Street, Margaret had begged for ten minutes in which to do some shopping in one of the big stores near by. Mrs. Furneau had agreed to wait for her, and had pulled up in front of the store while Margaret got out and ran inside. And that was all!
Mrs. Furneau had waited for nearly half an hour, and then, as she could see that the store was closing for the night, had gone inside to look for her. Not finding her, she had returned to the car. But Margaret had not come out, according to Mrs. Furneau’s chauffeur. So she went back again and searched the nearly empty store thoroughly this time. But she could learn nothing—could find no one who had even seen the child. Margaret had certainly entered the store, for the older woman said she had watched her graceful figure until it passed through the revolving doors. But after that she had vanished!
Thinking that Margaret might have met and talked with friends or gone to another store in search of what she wanted, Mrs. Furneau had waited in the car for nearly an hour more. By that time all the stores were closed. And besides, Margaret was a considerate child and would never have stayed away so long of her own volition without telling her hostess. Mrs. Furneau became really frightened then and telephoned to me.
Half an hour later I met her in New York. She repeated the details of Margaret’s disappearance and we talked over possibilities, but there was no clew to work on, as to what could have become of my little sister. We called up all the friends she had in New York that I knew about, but could learn nothing. And there was very little that I could do that night. The store workers were scattered to the four winds by that time.
So I had given all the details of the disappearance to the police, and after sending Mrs. Furneau home—she was frightened and tired out—I went to a hotel myself, so that I could be close at hand if the police wanted me.
As long as I live the recollection of that night will be vivid in my memory. Hour after hour I paced the floor, stopping every ten minutes or so to ring up my house, only to learn from the frightened servants that there was no news. Margaret had not returned. And at last the gray dawn crept into the room and found me still fully dressed and still pacing back and forth.
The store opened at nine, and at that hour Mrs. Furneau, who had come into town again to help, joined me. We went through the store together and questioned the workers—door-men, floor-walkers, salesgirls—every one. But we could learn nothing. There was simply no trace of any kind.
And another hasty telephone call told me that there was no news of my little sister at home.