I could find out whether she's there, but if she is—what of it? I don't think she's dead; or gone away."
His telephone rang and he jumped; but it was only the doorman to say, "Cab is waiting, Mr. Hale."
He went down and gave the cabman the number on Clearedge Street from which the police had taken the poison case; then he sat back and told himself not to think; not to try to think. Billy dead; and Marjorie—Marjorie?
Clearedge; nearer and nearer he was drawing to Clearedge. How well he knew the turns, the names of the near-by places and streets. Ah, now he was near the number. Quiet about there; most curtains down; nobody up. A few girls and boys on the street going toward the lake for early morning bathing.
"Wait!" he cried to the driver when the taxi was before the number of that poison case. He was in the vestibule, ringing and knocking at the entrance door. A drowsy man opened, who knew no Miss Hale; so Hale shook him and described. The man recognized. "Oh, Miss Conway—in number twelve!"
Hale reached the door and knocked; knocked.
A voice answered; Marjorie's. "Who is it?"
"Marjorie, your father!"
"What?"
"Open that door!"
She opened a few inches; and there she stood, rousing from sleep. Rousing; that meant, until he knocked, she had slept!
"Why, father; what's the matter? Something's happened to mother? You had a cable? You"
But her father stared and clung to the door casing. "She doesn't even know," he realized with himself.
