At half-past nine I heard the sound of a horse driven furiously
up the drive. It came to a stop in front of the house, and
immediately after there were hurried steps on the veranda. Our
nerves were not what they should have been, and Gertrude, always
apprehensive lately, was at the door almost instantly. A moment
later Louise had burst into the room and stood there bareheaded
and breathing hard!
"Where is Halsey?" she demanded. Above her plain black gown her
eyes looked big and somber, and the rapid drive had brought no
color to her face. I got up and drew forward a chair.
"He has not come back," I said quietly. "Sit down, child; you
are not strong enough for this kind of thing."
I don't think she even heard me.
"He has not come back?" she asked, looking from me to Gertrude.
"Do you know where he went? Where can I find him?"
"For Heaven's sake, Louise," Gertrude burst out, "tell us what is
wrong. Halsey is not here. He has gone to the station for Mr.
Jamieson. What has happened?"
"To the station, Gertrude? You are sure?"
"Yes," I said. "Listen. There is the whistle of the train now."
She relaxed a little at our matter-of-fact tone, and allowed
herself to sink into a chair.
"Perhaps I was wrong," she said heavily. "He--will be here in a
few moments if--everything is right."
We sat there, the three of us, without attempt at conversation.
Both Gertrude and I recognized the futility of asking Louise any
questions: her reticence was a part of a role she had assumed.
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