He was enclosing the letter when there came a light tap at the
office-door, and then the door itself opened to admit Patricia--a
Patricia bright-eyed and determined, alluringly charming in her tightly
veiled driving-hat, muffling motor-coat, and dainty gauntlets.
"You?" said Blount not too hospitably. "I thought you said something
about going to Wartrace?"
"So I did, and so I am," she asserted, coming to sit in the chair last
occupied by one Thomas Gryson.
"And the others?" he queried.
"They have just left; gone on ahead in the touring-car. I was deputed to
bring you."
"But I told you this morning that I couldn't go, and I can't!" he
protested.
She looked him squarely in the eye. "Evan, you don't dare tell me why
you can't!"
"Business," he pleaded.
"That may be half of the truth, but it isn't any more than half." Then
she made the direct appeal: "I wish you'd tell me, Evan. I know a
little--just the little that Mrs. Blount has seen fit to tell me--and no
more. There is trouble threatening; some dreadful trouble. I saw it
yesterday when you were so miserable; I can see it in your eyes this
minute."
Blount got up and began to pace the floor so that she might not see his
eyes. He was no more proof against such an appeal than any lover gladly
ready to bare his soul to the woman chosen out of a world of women for
his confidant and second self would be.
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