ten acted queerly
in bad weather. Only partly reassured, she called Uncle Benny's house
several more times during the morning, but still got no reply; and
after luncheon she called her father again, to tell him that she had
resolved to get some one to go over to the house with her.

Her father, to her surprise, forbade this rather sharply; his voice,
she realized, was agitated and excited, and she asked him the reason;
but instead of answering her, he made her repeat to him her
conversation of the afternoon before with Uncle Benny, and now he
questioned her closely about it. But when she, in her turn, tried to
question him, he merely put her off and told her not to worry. Later,
when she called him again, resolved to make him tell her what was the
matter, he had left the office.

In the late afternoon, as dusk was drawing into dark, she stood at the
window, watching the storm, which still continued, with one of those
delusive hopes which come during anxiety that, because it was the time
of day at which she had seen Uncle Benny walking by the lake the day
before, she might see him there again, when she saw her father's motor
approaching. It was coming from the north, not from the south as it
would have been if he was coming from his office or his club, and it
had turned into the drive from the west. She knew, therefore, that he
was coming from Uncle Benny's house, and, as the car swerved and
wheeled in, she ran out into the hall to meet him.

He came in without taking off hat or coat; she could see that he was
perturbed, greatly agitated.

"What is it, father?" she demanded. "What has happened?"

"I do not know, my dear."

"It is something--something that has happened to Uncle Benny?"

"I am afraid so, dear--yes. But I do not know what it is that has
happened, or I would tell you."

He put his arm about her and drew her into a room opening off the
hall--his study. He made her repeat again to him the conversation she
had had with Uncle Benny and tell him how he had acted; but she saw
that what she told him did not help him. He seemed to consider it
carefully, but in the end to discard or disregard it.

Then he drew her toward him.

"Tell me, little daughter. You have been a great deal with Uncle Benny
and have talked with him; I want you to think carefully. Did you ever
hear him speak of any one called Alan Conrad?"

She thought. "No, father."

"No reference ever made by him at all to either nam