“Sorry I can not,” said Drake coldly, and it stung him to see a look of boundless relief cross the grave face in front of him.
“Then you don't know——”
“I didn't say that,” said Drake, and then the lines of pain came back.
“At the request of her people I brought her up to London. Naturally they will look to me for news of her, and I feel responsible for her welfare.”
“If that is so, you must pardon me for saying you've taken your duty lightly,” said Drake.
John Storm gripped the rail of the chair in front of him, and there was silence for a moment.
“Whatever I may have to blame myself with in the past, it would relieve me to find her well and happy and safe from all harm.”
“She is well and happy, and safe too—I can tell you that much.”
There was another moment of silence, and then John Storm said in broken sentences and in a voice that was struggling to control itself: “I have known her since she was a child, sir—-You can not think how many tender memories—-It is nearly a year since I saw her, and one likes to see old friends after an absence.”
Drake did not speak, but he dropped his head, for John's eyes had begun to fill.