Laura and Lenora were seated at the
table, dressed for the street. They had the air of being prepared for some
excursion. Quest, realising the Professor's highly-strung state, had left
him alone for a few moments and was studying a map of New York. The
latter, however, was too ill at ease to keep silent for long.
"Our friend French," he remarked, "gave you no clue, I suppose, as to the
direction in which his investigations are leading him?"
Quest glanced up from the map.
"None at all. I know, however, that the house in which Lenora here was
confined, is being watched closely."
The Professor glanced towards the table before which Lenora was seated.
"It seems strange," he continued, "that the young lady should have so
little to tell us about her incarceration."
Lenora shivered for a moment.
"What could there be to tell," she asked, "except that it was all
horrible, and that I felt things--felt dangers--which I couldn't
describe."
The Professor gave vent to an impatient little exclamation.
"I am not speaking of fancies," he persisted. "You had food brought to
you, for instance. Could you never see the hand which placed it inside
your room? Could you hear nothing of the footsteps of the person who
brought it? Could you not even surmise whether it was a man or a woman?"
Lenora answered him with an evident effort. She had barely, as yet,
recovered from the shock of those awful hours.
"The person who brought me the food," she said, "came at night--never in
the daytime.
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