"You have heard nothing yet from Neil Lowell?"
The question was addressed by Lynde Pyne to Andrew Pryor as the two men shook hands on the morning after the event just narrated had taken place.
"I was about to put the same question to you," returned the elder man. "I am losing hope. I wonder what could have happened to the boy? I have given his description to every police station in the city; I have private detectives at work, I have done everything that lies in my power, but all to no purpose! The matter is shrouded in as great a mystery as it was at the beginning. I am about coming to the conclusion that he has been foully dealt with!"
Pyne started.
"How is that possible?" he asked, half unconscious of having spoken.
"How is it possible!" cried Mr. Pryor with annoyance. "How are half the horrible things that you read of daily in the papers possible? I don't know, but one never can tell what may happen, nor what has happened. I have had the most flaming advertisements in the papers, asking him if he were safe to at least let me know. Lowell was a great reader of the papers, and if he had seen it he would surely have answered in some way. He has never seen it, and he has not because—he is dead!"
Pyne's hand came down upon a glass, knocking it to the floor with an awful crash.
His face was ghastly.
"Have you any reason for thinking that?" he demanded so hoarsely that Pryor's attention was attracted from his concern about Leonie to his friend.
"No, no!" he answered. "Why, what is it, Pyne? You were not acquainted with Lowell, were you? I did not know that you had ever met him more than once."