"Mr. Drummond," she replied, "I don't care to talk to you."
"You don't, hey? Well, perhaps, when the time comes you'll have to talk. How about that?"
She was thinking rapidly. Was Mrs. Warrington preparing to strike a blow that would be the last impulse necessary to send the plunger down for the last time? She decided to take a chance, to temporize until some one else made a move.
"I'd thank you to place your fingers on this pad," said Constance quietly. "I'm making a collection of these things."
"You are, are you?"
"Yes," she cut short. "And if my collection isn't large enough I shall call up Mrs. Warrington and ask her to come over, too," she added significantly.
Floretta entered again. "Please wipe the ink off Mr. Drummond's fingers," ordered Constance quietly, still holding out the pad.
"Confound your impudence," he ground out, seizing the pad. "There! What do you mean by Mrs. Warrington? What has she to do with this? Have a care, Mrs. Dunlap—you're on the wrong track here, and going the wrong way."
"Mr. Warrington is—" began Floretta.
"Show him in—quick," demanded Constance, determined to bring the affair to a show-down on the spot.