“I have a lovely steak, Miss. The butcher remembers me once in a while, and he knows I am fond of a bit of tender beef. My teeth are not what they were once, you know, Miss.”
“But why should I eat your nice steak?” demanded Helen, laughing at him. “My teeth are good for what the boys on the range call ‘bootleg.’ That’s steak cut right next to the hoof!”
“Ah, but, Miss! There is so much more than I could possibly eat,” he urged.
He had already turned the electricity into his grill. The ruddy steak—salted, peppered, with tiny flakes of garlic upon it—he brought from his own little icebox. The appetizing odor of the meat sharpened Helen’s appetite even as she sipped the first of her coffee.
“I’ll just have to eat some, I expect, Mr. Lawdor,” she said. Then she had a sudden thought, and added: “Or perhaps you’d like to save this tidbit for the little old lady in the attic?”
Mr. Lawdor turned—not suddenly; he never did anything with suddenness; but it was plain she had startled him.
“Bless me, Miss—bless me—bless me——”
He trailed off in his usual shaky way; but his lips were white and he stared at Helen like an owl for a full minute. Then he added:
“Is there a lady in the attic, Miss?” And he said it in his most polite way.
“Of course there is, Mr. Lawdor; and you know it. Who is she? I am only curious.”