weakly. "Gone where? What for? 'The only way'—what's she mean by that?"
"She was here less than an hour ago when I went down to the village"—the warden's voice choked. "I don't know what it means. She was just as she always was then. There's no reason why she should go away, she—"
"You're sure that's her writing on the note?" demanded Doctor Kreelmar suddenly.
The warden picked up the sheet of paper again and studied it anxiously.
"Yes," he said. "It's her writing—and she's gone, Kreelmar. Do you understand?—she's gone—what are we to do?"
"Do! Do!" flung out the little doctor. "Why, find her, of course—no matter what she says in that note. If she was here an hour ago she can't be very far away yet, and—"
"Listen!"—Warden Rand had caught the doctor's arm and was pressing it fiercely.
A step sounded on the veranda—a light step, crossing it very slowly—entering the hall.
"Listen!"—the warden's grip tightened. "It's—it's Janet!"
She came into the room like one walking in her sleep—as though she did not see them—her hands pressed to her temples, her eyes half-closed, no single vestige of colour in the strained, drawn face.
"Janet!" her father cried, stepping toward her. "Merciful Heavens, child, what has happened?"
For a moment she looked at them in a dazed, almost unconscious way. Her eyes passed from her father to
