“Young?” inquired Barnes.
“Ees, sair––much young––come in autbile. I tell them you no home?” turning to Gladwin.
“No, wait,” responded Gladwin, his curiosity taking fire. “You tell them to come in.”
“They say you come door.”
“Very well,” but Whitney Barnes stopped him.
“Better see them in here, Travers. If they really want to see you they’ll come in. Ask them to come in, Bateato.”
The little Jap was gone with the speed and noiselessness of a mouse.
“Who in heaven’s name can it be?” whispered 79 Travers Gladwin as Bateato could be heard lisping in the vestibule. Before Whitney Barnes managed to frame a reply a swift, muffled step was audible and Helen Burton stood framed in the narrow space between the portières. Her timid cousin stopped behind her, staring timidly over her shoulder. She was manifestly surprised and startled as she paused and regarded the two young men.
In point of startled surprise, however, Travers Gladwin’s emotion matched hers. He stared at her almost rudely in his amazement and involuntarily he turned to Whitney Barnes and said under his breath:
“The grapefruit girl!”