"Mr. Lockwood had come in to visit him on business, had found the
door into the hall open, and entered. No one seemed to be about;
but the lights were burning. He went on into the den. There was my
father--"

She stopped, and could not go on at all for several minutes.

"And Mr. Lockwood, who is he?" asked Craig gently.

"My father and I, we have been in this country only a short time,"
she replied, trying to speak in good English in spite of her
emotion, "with his partner in a--a mining venture--Mr. Lockwood."

She paused again and hesitated, as though in this strange land of
the north she had no idea of which way to turn for help. But once
started, now, she did not stop again.

"Oh," she went on passionately, "I don't know what it was that
came over my father. But lately he had been a changed man.
Sometimes I thought he was--what you call--mad. I should have gone
to see a doctor about him," she added wildly, her feelings getting
the better of her. "But it is no longer a case for a doctor. It is
a case for a detective--for some one who is more than a detective.
You cannot bring him back, but--"

She could not go on. Yet her broken sentence spoke volumes, in her
pleading, soft, musical voice, which was far more pleasing to the
ear than that of the usual Latin-American.