Rankin," I asked, "if you were in my place, would
you tell?"
He hesitated for a moment, and then held out his hand.
"No," he said, as I took it. "I shouldn't. Shake hands, sir; you're
all right. Come on, boys, we might as well be going."
They filed out after him, and I heard them go singing up the street.
Then I sank back into my chair and thought again of Godfrey's theory;
it seemed to fit the case precisely, point by point--even--and I
started at the thought--to Miss Holladay's reticence as to her
whereabouts the afternoon before. The whole mystery lay plain before
me. In some way, she had discovered the existence of her half-sister,
had secured her address; she had gone to visit her and had found her
away from home--it was probable, even, that the half-sister had
written her, asking her to come--though, in that case, why had she not
remained at home to receive her? At any rate, Miss Holladay had
awaited her return, had noticed her agitation; had, perhaps, even seen
certain marks of blood upon her. The news of her father's death had
pointed all too clearly to what that agitation and those blood-spots
meant. She had remained silent that she might not besmirch her
father's name, and also, perhaps, that she might protect the other
woman. I felt that I held in my hand the key to the whole problem.
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