His eyes fell on the telephone, and he nodded toward it. "Seemed very
anxious to see you, didn't she, Conniston? I mean Miss Kirkstone."

"Rather."

McDowell seated himself and lighted a match. "Seemed--a
little--nervous--perhaps," he suggested between puffs. "As though
something had happened--or was going to happen. Don't mind my
questioning you, do you, Derry?"

"Not a bit," said Keith. "You see, I thought perhaps you might
explain--"

There was a disquieting gleam in McDowell's eyes. "It was odd that she
should call you up so soon--and in the storm--wasn't it? She expected
to find you at my office. I could fairly hear the lightning hissing
along the wires. She must have been under some unusual impulse."

"Perhaps."

McDowell was silent for a space, looking steadily at Keith, as if
measuring him up to something.

"I don't mind telling you that I am very deeply interested in Miss
Kirkstone," he said. "You didn't see her when the Judge was killed. She
was away at school, and you were on John Keith's trail when she
returned. I have never been much of a woman's man, Conniston, but I
tell you frankly that up until six or eight months ago Miriam was one
of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen. I would give a good deal
to know the exact hour and date when the change in her began. I might