“But Alan—Mr. Bishop?” She was studying his face and pondering his unwonted excitement. “Had they money there?”
Miller did not answer, but she would not be put aside.
“Tell me,” she urged—“tell me that.”
“If I do, it's in absolute confidence,” he said, with professional firmness. “No one must know—not a soul—that they were depositors, for much depends on it. If Wilson knew they were hard up he might drive them to the wall. They were not only depositors, but they lose every cent they have—twenty-five thousand dollars in a lump.”
He saw her catch her breath, and her lips moved mutely, as if repeating the words he had just spoken. “Poor Alan!” he heard her say. “This is too, too much, after all he has gone through.”
Miller touched his hat and started on, but she joined him, keeping by his side like a patient, pleading child. He marvelled over her strength and wonderful poise. “I am taking you out of your way, Miss Dolly,” he said, gently, more gently than he had ever spoken to her before.
“I only want to know if Alan has heard. Do—do tell me that.”
“No, he's at home. I shall ride out as soon as I get the matter in the hands of the police.”
She put out her slender, shapely hand and touched his arm.
“Tell him,” she said, in a low, uncertain voice, “that it has broken my heart. Tell him I love him more than I ever did, and that I shall stick to him always.”