Something in the manner of Mr. Voss sent a chill to the heart of
Mrs. Birtwell. She felt an evasion in his reply. Then a suspicion of
the truth flashed upon her mind, overwhelming her with a flood of
bitterness in which shame, self-reproach, sorrow and distress were
mingled. It was from her hand, so to speak, that the son of her
friend had taken the wine which had bewildered his senses, and from
her house that he had gone forth with unsteady step and confused
brain to face a storm the heaviest and wildest that had been known
for years. If he were dead, would not the stain of his blood be on
her garments?

No marvel that Mr. Voss had said, "Not yet; it might disturb her too
much." Disturb the friend with whose heart her own had beaten in
closest sympathy and tenderest love for years--the friend who had
flown to her in the deepest sorrow she had ever known and held her
to her heart until she was comforted by the sweet influences of
love. Oh, this was hard to bear! She bowed her head and stood
silent.

"I wish," said Mr. Voss, speaking to Mr. Birtwell, "to get the names
of a few of the guests who were here last night. Some of them may
have seen Archie go out, or may have gone away at the time he did. I
must find some clue to the mystery of his absence."

Mr. Birtwell named over many of his guests, and Mr. Voss made a note
of their addresses. The chill went deeper down into the heart of
Mrs. Birtwell; and when Mr. Voss, who seemed to grow colder and more
constrained every moment, without looking at her, turned to go away,
the pang that cut her bosom was sharp and terrible.