Part 47 (1/2)
”Was I frowning?” innocently enough.
”I find you this way a dozen times in an afternoon. What is the matter? Are they after you again?”
”Heavens, no! I'm only a vague issue. They will not bother me so long as I do not bother them. It has dwindled into a game of truce.”
”Do you think so?” eying him curiously.
”Why, yes.”
”What's the use of trying to fool me, Jim? If they haven't been after you, you are sensing a presage of evil. I'm not a child any longer.
Haven't I been through enough to make me a woman? Sometimes I feel very old.”
”To me you are the most charming in all this wide world. No, you're not a child any longer. You are a woman, brave and patient; and I know that I could trust you with any secret I have or own. But sometimes a person may have a secret which is not his and which he hasn't any right to disclose.”
She became silent for a while. ”I hate money,” she said. ”I hate it, hate it!”
”It's mighty comfortable to have it around sometimes,” he countered.
”As in my case, for instance. If I were poor and had to work no one would bother me.”
”I would!” he declared, laughing. ”Come; let's throw off moods and go into town for tea at the Rose Garden; and if you feel strong enough we'll trip the light fantastic.”
They had been gone from the house less than an hour when a man ran up the steps of the veranda and rang the bell. Jones being busy at the rear of the house, the maid came to the door.
”Is Miss Hargreave in?” the stranger asked.
”No,” abruptly. The door began to close ever so slowly
”Do you know where I can find her?”
The maid eyed him with covert keenness; then, remembering that the reporter was with Florence, said: ”I believe she is at the Rose Garden this afternoon.”
”That is in town?”
”Yes.”
”Thanks.” The man turned abruptly and ran down the steps.
The maid ran back to Jones.
”Why didn't you call me?” he demanded impatiently.
”There wasn't time.”
”Did you tell him where she was?”
”Yes. But I shouldn't have told him if Mr. Norton had not been with Miss Florence.”
Jones ran to the front, dashed out, eyed the back of the man hastening down the street, smiled, and returned to his work, or, rather, to the maid. He took her by the shoulder, whirled her about, and shot a look into her eyes that quailed her.
”Always call me hereafter, no matter what I'm doing. That man has never laid eyes on Florence and has no idea what she looks like. Why did you drug my coffee the night of that ball?”