Hammond looked up, pleased.
“Why, the little chap’s a brick, after all!” he mentally ejaculated.
“She’ll make a very good housekeeper,” concluded Mr. Yorke.
Hammond started to his feet.
“I can’t question this child,” he said to himself. And turning to the boy, he said, abruptly: “Will you ask your mother if I can see her?”
Mr. Yorke instantly responded to the tone of authority and became respectful.
“Yes, sir,” he answered, and promptly went out of the room.
“By Heaven, I have a great mind to bolt!” exclaimed Hammond as the door closed. “I feel like a miserable spy.”
Before he could act on his impulse the door opened again, and Belle Yorke’s mother came in.
Hammond rose. He saw before him a woman who had once been eminently handsome. She was dressed in the deep mourning of a widow, and to this fact, perhaps, was due the impression of melancholy produced by her appearance. She looked at him with large, apprehensive eyes, as she murmured the conventional expressions which people exchange when they meet. But she did not offer him her hand.