“My dear,â€� laughed the woman nervously, “we do everything for money. So you needn’t be ashamed. We don’t always say it’s for money. But it is. That’s why I got into this scrape. My husband is the stingiest man in New York. He pretends his business is on such a ragged edge that he can’t give me any extra cash. But I know better. That’s why I let myself get interested in Mr. Schreiner. He is a widower, and he has more money than he can—â€�
“Oh!� cried Daisy in sick horror.
“So he’ll make it good to you for all that you’ve done for us,â€� prattled on the woman, without noticing. “He’ll—â€�
“That isn’t why I came up here!â€� broke in Daisy angrily. “And I don’t want your filthy money, either. I wont touch it. I came up here to warn you that your husband is going to—â€�
The buzz of the flat’s front-door bell interrupted her. The woman, too, turned nervously to look. They heard the maid fumble with the knob. Then some one brushed past the servant and into the living-room.
The intruder was a chunky and yellowish man, of late middle years—incredibly bald of head and suspiciously black of eyebrows. He caught sight of Mrs. Vanbrugh, who chanced to be standing between him and Daisy. And he exclaimed:
“I jumped into a taxi and hustled here, as soon as I left the phone. I didn’t dare call up again. Do you suppose he recognized me?�
Yes, the voice was indubitably the voice of Karl. But the fat and elderly swain was in anything but a loverly mood. He was a-quake with terror. Beads of sweat trickled down on his brows and mustache. His yellowish complexion was blotchy from fear. He was not a pretty sight.
Daisy by this time should have been past surprise. Yet her preconceived vision of Karl—of young, athletic, hero-featured Karl—died hard and in much and sudden pain. Poor Daisy! Until he spoke, she had mistaken him for the husband.
“If he knew my voice,â€� babbled the man, “we’re up against it. I’d better get out of town for a while, I suppose. Maybe he—â€�