“I think she has gone to you—I do not know, but I think she has gone to the hill-cabin——”
“Are you her friend?”
“Yes—I am Miss Quiston.”
“When did she go?”
“Last night. I telegraphed you——”
He came close to her. His hand upon her shoulder drew her to a chair, and he brought another near. “I will not stop to ask questions,” he said heavily. “You tell me all——”
“What of the play?”
“I don’t know—I left before it was done to come here.... She is ill—go on——”
The story faltered at first, but the gray eyes steadied her. Toward the end she talked swiftly, coherently. She winged over the one certain cause of Betty’s illness.... When she stopped, it seemed to her that some mighty machinery was whirring below, its vibrations in the floor and walls.
He arose, stood beside her—all the light and reason gone from his face. For several seconds he stood there, his left hand swiftly tapping her shoulder. The powers of the man were afar—miles away upon his hill. This was just a tapping blind man in the room....