“Last night, as we were walking together to the station—something that I refused to believe. But I believe it now.”
“Then you know the truth,” he cried. “If there had not been some unfair play, the Doctor would never have disappeared without first telling me. He has many times entrusted me with his secrets.”
“I quite believe that he would have telegraphed or written,” she said. “He looked upon you as his best friend in London.”
“And, Marion, this very fact causes me to suspect foul play,” he said, the recollection of that fugitive in the night flashing across his brain. “What do you, in the light of this secret knowledge, suspect?”
Her lips were closed tightly, and there was a strange look in her eyes.
“I believe, Max,” she replied, in a low, hard voice, “that something terrible must have happened to Maud!”
“Did she apprehend something?”
“I cannot tell. She confessed to me something under a bond of secrecy. Before I tell you I must consult Charlie—the man she loved so dearly.”
“But are we not lovers, Marion?” he asked, in a low intense voice. “Cannot you tell me what she said, in order that I may institute inquiries at once. Delay may mean the escape of the assassin if there really has been foul play.”
“I cannot betray Maud’s confidence, Max,” was her calm answer.