“Will you take me down-town? I’ll be ready in a moment.”
“Gladly.”
The Doctor was informed in a tense but controlled voice that the patient was doubtless at this moment upon a certain east-bound train. “Betty left here a few minutes after nine,” Helen added. “The train I’m thinking of left at ten-five. It is now eleven.... Oh, I wonder what she had on? She was dressed when I left her—shirt-waist, black skirt, house-slippers——”
Five minutes’ search and thinking on the part of Miss Quiston uncovered the fact that Betty’s rain-coat and a certain small traveling hat were missing.... Nothing was positively established at the station.
“I must send a telegram, Doctor,” Helen said.
It was to Morning at his rural-delivery address. Her heart sank with fear lest the message fail to reach him, until it was finally handled by the post-office.
“There’s nothing further to do,” she said hopelessly.
Night brought no news, nor the early morning. At nine-thirty o’clock, Helen Quiston was leaving the studio for the morning’s work, when she heard a light, swift step on the stairs—someone coming up at least three steps at a time. The hall-door was half-swung. Helen stood waiting.... Now a stranger was at the doorway, hesitating, yet expectant. His brow was tanned, as if he had walked bare-headed in the sun. His gray eyes were remarkably clear and very kind. For a second or two they stood face to face, forgetting to speak.
“Where is Betty Berry?” It was a demand, yet gently spoken.
“Are you—are you John Morning?” “Yes.... Where is she?”