CHAPTER 17IT WAS two hours later when he slipped quietly out of his own room and down the stairs. He stopped in the middle of the hall. Mary Winship was coming slowly up from the first floor. She looked tired and exhausted, very pale and very lovely.
“Mary!” He went quickly toward her.
She stopped, her hand on the newel post, and looked at him. She was too worn out to remember that he had offended her the night before.
“How is your mother, Mary?”
“She’s better now. She’s asleep at last.”
“Mary—I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, it’s all right. It doesn’t matter. Aunt Caroline says you’ve been to the police.”
“Did you want me not to go?”
She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “No. But I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it till I’ve got to—that my father—” She turned
