“Gerry,” she said, “has a level head. He may have gone away, but that is all. He can take care of himself.” She went to tell Alix that there was no news. When she came back, the judge turned to her.
“Well,” he asked, “What did she say?”
“Nothing, except that she wanted to know if you had tried the bank.”
The judge struck his fist into his left hand. “Never thought of it,” he said. “That child has a head!” He went to the telephone. From the president of the bank he traced the manager, from the manager, the cashier. Yes, Gerry had been at the bank on Saturday. The cashier remembered it because Mr. Lansing had drawn a certain account in full. He would not say how much.
“There,” said the judge, with a sigh of relief, “that’s something. It takes a steady nerve to draw a bank-account in full. You must take the news up-stairs. I’m off. I’ll follow up the clue to-morrow.”
There was a new look of content mingled with the worry in Mrs. Lansing’s face that made the judge say, as he held out his hand in farewell, “Things better?”
Mrs. Lansing understood him.
“Yes,” she answered, and added, “we have been crying together.”
There had been strength in Mrs. Lansing’s calm. She had been waiting, and now the waiting was over. Alix had given herself, tearful and almost wordless, into arms that were more than ready, and had then poured out her heart in a broken tale that would have confounded any court of justice, but which between women was clearer than logic.
At the end Mrs. Lansing said nothing. Instead, she petted Alix, carried her off to bed, and kept her there for three days. In her waking hours Alix added spasmodic bits to her confession—sage reflections after the event, dreamy “I wonders” that speculated in the past and in the measure of her emotions.