"Oh--that anonymous letter!" she cried. "Tell me--you do not think
that--the friend of my father's that it warned me to beware of--
was--"
She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to do so.
"Please, Senorita," pleaded and soothed Kennedy, "try to be calm.
What has happened? Tell me. What is it?"
The ammonia and the fresh air seemed to have done their work, for
she managed to brace herself, gripping the arms of the chair
tightly and looking up searchingly into Craig's face.
"It's about Chester," she managed to gasp; then seemed unable to
go on.
It was the first time I had ever heard her use Lockwood's first
name, and I knew that something had stirred her emotions more
deeply than at any time since the death of her father.
"Yes," prompted Kennedy. "Go on."
"I have heard that you found foot-prints, shoe-prints, in the dust
in the Museum after the dagger was stolen," she said, speaking
rapidly, suppressing her feelings heroically. "Since then you have
been collecting prints of shoes--and I've heard that the shoe-
prints that were found are those of--of Mr. Lockwood. Oh,
Professor Kennedy, it cannot be--there must be some mistake."
For a moment Kennedy did not say anything.
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