The moment she was gone, Ellen Post dropped her work in a white heap on the carpet, and opened the kitchen door.
“Mr. Mahone!”
The footman answered the call of his lady love promptly. She closed the door and held up the check. He flushed crimson with pleasure.
“You don’t say so!”
“That is all we shall get till after the trial,” said Ellen.
“Let me look at it,” entreated Mr. Mahone, reaching out his hand.
“No, the ink is wet,” answered his betrothed.
“But, but when—”
Mahone hesitated, some coward thought, which might have been conscience in another man, checked the criminal proposition he was about to make.
“Did you ask anything?” inquired Ellen, slowly folding the check which she hid carefully away in her bosom.