I ought to be going this morning; one of us should be in Chicago right now."
She repeated "one of us" again unconsciously, including him with her in the way they both were thinking but which neither had yet quite confessed. She would not have planned to phrase it so; but now that she had, she would not alter it. "We know that Kincheloe—and my grandfather—had somebody killed. But who? We don't know; and I think we'll not find out up here. We can't prove even that any one came to the Rock after you left last night. And if we could, we couldn't show any reason why Kincheloe and my grandfather should make away with him. We know there is a reason, but what—what is it, do you suppose?" she appealed to Barney, her emotions for a moment overcoming her attempt to reason. "What has my grandfather against you and me? Who was it that he dare not let you meet? What—oh, what did my father want to say to you?"
Again that morning had her words, forcing themselves out, told her what she had not yet admitted to herself. Yesterday, and last night, she had refused to accept the substance of that letter from London as an actual experience to be seriously held; but this morning her ideas were deepening.
"I think there's surely something to be found out in Chicago," Barney said. "Bagley's back there; and Marcellus Clarke has his office there."
"And my uncle Lucas is there—or he sent that telegram last night warning grandfather. But of course, he'll be with grandfather; I'll learn nothing from him, if he can help it."
"He's the uncle at whose house you stayed before coming up here?"
