Part 24 (1/2)

”The connection of any old friend who does not care to see Miss Fenimer neglected and humiliated,” answered Linburne, all the more hotly because he knew it was an awkward question.

Perhaps the young poet had not been so wrong in attaching the name of Helen to Miss Fenimer, for she sat now as calmly interested in the conflict developing before her, as Helen when she sat on the walls of Troy and designated the Greek heroes for the amus.e.m.e.nt of her newer friends.

”May I ask, Mr. Riatt, what rights in the matter you consider that you have?” Linburne pursued.

For Riatt, too, the question was an awkward one, but he had his answer ready. ”The rights,” he said, ”of a man who certainly was once engaged to Miss Fenimer, and who came East ignorant that the engagement was already at an end.”

Christine laughed. ”Very neatly put,” she said.

”Neatly put,” exclaimed Linburne. ”You talk as if we were playing a game.”

”You have the reputation of playing all games well, my dear Lee,” she returned. The obvious fact that she was enjoying the interview, made both men eager to end it--but, unfortunately, they wished to end it in diametrically opposite ways.

”Christine,” said Linburne, ”will you ask Mr. Riatt to be so kind as to let me have ten minutes alone with you?”

Riatt spoke to her also. ”I will do exactly as you say,” he said, ”but you understand that if I go now, I shall not come back.”

Christine smiled. ”Is that a threat or a promise?” she asked, the sweetness of her smile almost taking away the sting of her words.

Seeing that she hesitated, Riatt went on: ”Since I have come more than a thousand miles to see you, don't you think you might suggest to Mr.

Linburne that he let me have my visit undisturbed?”

There was a long and rather terrible pause, terrible that is to the two men. Christine probably enjoyed every second of it. There was nothing in Linburne's experience of life to make him think that any woman whom he had honored with his preference was likely to prefer another man to himself. So the pause was terrible to him, not because he doubted what the climax would be, but because he felt his dignity insulted by even an appearance of hesitation. Max, on the other hand, was still a good deal in doubt as to her ultimate intentions.

It was to him, finally, that she spoke.

”Max,” she said, ”do you remember that while we were staying at the Usshers' we composed a certain doc.u.ment together?”

He nodded, and then as she did not continue, he opened his pocketbook and took out the release.

She made no motion to take it; on the contrary, she leaned back and crossed her hands in her lap.

”Yes,” she said, ”that's it. Well, you may stay, if you care to burn that sc.r.a.p of paper.”

It was now Max's turn to hesitate, for the decision of freedom or captivity was in his own hands; the crisis he had so recklessly rushed to meet was now upon him.

”What is in that paper?” asked Linburne, as one who has a right to question.

Christine was perfectly good-tempered as she answered: ”Well, Lee, it still belongs to Mr. Riatt; but if he decides not to burn it, I promise to tell you all about it as we drink our tea.”

”Do you promise me that, Christine?”

”Most solemnly, Lee.” She looked up at Linburne, and before Max knew what he was doing he found he had dropped the paper into the fire.

Strangely enough, though the fire was hot, the paper did not catch at once, but curled and rocked an instant in the heat, before it disappeared in flame and smoke. Not until it was a black crisp did Christine turn to Linburne, and hold out her hand.

”Good-by, Lee,” she said pleasantly. But he did not answer or take her hand. He left the room in silence.

When the door had shut behind him, Christine glanced at her remaining visitor. ”And now,” she said, ”I suppose you are wis.h.i.+ng you had not.”