“But we are in London—not in Servia.”
“There are surely secret agents of the Servian Opposition party here in London!” she said. “You were telling me something about them once—some facts which the doctor had revealed to you.”
“Yes, I remember,” he remarked thoughtfully, feeling that in her argument there was much truth. “Yet I have a kind of intuition of the occurrence of some tragedy, Marion,” he added, recollecting how her brother had stolen in secret from that denuded house.
“Well, I think, dear, that your fears are quite groundless,” she declared. “I know how the affair is worrying you, and how much you respected the dear old doctor. But, if I were you, I would wait in patience. He will surely send you word some day from some remote corner of the earth. Suppose he had sailed for India, South America, or South Africa, for instance? There would have been no time for him to write to you from his hiding-place.”
“Then he is in hiding—eh?” asked Max, eager to seize on any word of, hers that might afford a clue to the strange statement of Maud.
“He may be.”
“Is that your opinion?”
“I suspect as much.”
“Then you do not believe there has been a tragedy?”
“I believe only in what I know,” replied the girl with wisdom.