Mrs. Burton looked at the ribbon and then at Helen’s dress. There was accusation in the glance. Her eyes studied the orchids. They were of a peculiar rich golden brown, matching the splendor of Miss Burton’s hair. There was conviction in the second glance. She turned the bouquet over several times, looking for a card.
There was none.
Now, here was a mystery! Could Miss Helen explain? Mrs. Burton inhaled a deep breath, then said with exaggerated sweetness:
“Helen, dear, who could have sent you these beautiful 19 flowers? They are positively superb. He must certainly be an artist.”
Great as was her first panic, the young girl quickly rallied to her own defense. She had only waited to be sure there was no card, no incriminating mark of identification. She leaned forward on her elbows, sighed rapturously and exclaimed:
“Aren’t they exquisite, Aunt El!”
“I asked you, Helen dear, who could have sent them?” There was something distinctly feline in the purring tones as the question was repeated.
“Why, isn’t there any card, Aunt El?” fenced the girl.
“Come, come, my dear, why keep me in suspense? You can see there is no card. Can it be one of the young men we met at the Grangers last night? I hardly think so, for it is execrably bad form to send flowers to a public dining room by a page in buttons.”
Helen shook her head and assumed an air of great perplexity. She stole a glance across the table at Sadie, but that shy little cousin seemed on the verge of tears. Mrs. Burton intercepted the wireless appeal and shifted her cross-questioning to Sadie. She was determined to unravel the mystery. She read Sadie’s panic as a symptom of guilty knowledge.