Sight, or at least ability to focus on type, went from Hale and returned to him only intermittently; and so, now a few lines and now a few lines more he read the account—the careful, guarded half-account, or less than half-account, of what had occurred at Cragero's. All confused with "allegeds" and "it was said" and the concealment of names which a newspaper employs in its first record of a sudden event likely to involve important people and not clearly understood. But the main fact was perfectly clear; William Whittaker had gone there because he had followed some one else and he had got into trouble there because he had tried to "save" her; and, if he were not too late, anyway, he had failed. That was obvious and undeniable, because he had been killed.
And Hale, having read all that the newspaper told, dropped it and his hands went limp; his whole body went limp, even his lips as he tried to cry to himself his daughter's name, "Marjorie."
Where she was now, what had happened to her, the paper did not say; it did not actually print her name at all. It just told of a girl who was there and of a man who was with her.
"Rinderfeld!" Hale cried, his lips strong now. "Rinderfeld, the cover-up!" Of course; and how Rinderfeld had covered up for himself; he was on the ground, right there, before any one from the police or papers arrived. Rinderfeld with Marjorie!
Hale was at the 'phone on his wall. "Have a cab at the door for me at once!"
As he got into clothes, he thought, "I could telephone that place where she is. I could get the number;
