“Left home! It's impossible!” and he glanced at Victoria, who had risen to her feet. “There must be some mistake.”
“No, sir. First I got the doctor, who said that Mr. Vane was gone—at the risk of his life. And then I talked to Mr. Austen Vane himself, who was there consulting with the doctor. It appears that Mr. Hilary Vane had left home by eight o'clock, when Mr. Austen Vane got there.”
“Hilary's gone out of his head,” exclaimed Mr. Flint. “This thing has unhinged him. Here, take these telegrams. No, wait a minute, I'll go out there. Call up Billings, and see if you can get Senator Whitredge.”
He started out of the room, halted, and turned his head and hesitated.
“Father,” said Victoria, “I don't think Hilary Vane is out of his mind.”
“You don't?” he said quickly. “Why?”
By some unaccountable change in the atmosphere, of which Mr. Flint was unconscious, his normal relation to his daughter had been suddenly reestablished. He was giving ear, as usual, to her judgment.
“Did Hilary Vane tell you he would go to the convention?” she asked.
“Yes.” In spite of himself, he had given the word an apologetic inflection.
“Then he has gone already,” she said. “I think, if you will telephone a little later to the State capital, you will find that he is in his room at the Pelican Hotel.”