"There, if he hasn't left his walkin'-stick be'ind him!" exclaimed Million, picking up a heavy ebony cane with a handsome gold top to it. I realised that here was an excuse, hatched up by that conscienceless young Celt, to return shortly.
Million didn't see that. She exclaimed: "Now I've got to run after him with it, I s'pose——"
"No, you haven't, Miss Million. I will take it. It's the maid's place," I interposed. And quickly I took the cane and slipped out into the corridor with it.
I caught up with the tall visitor just as he reached the lift.
"You left your cane in Miss Million's room, sir," I said to him in a tone as stiff as that of a lady's-maid turned into a pillar of ice.
The big Irishman turned. But he did not put out his hand for the cane at once.
He just said, "That's very kind of you," and smiled at me. Smiled with all those bold blue eyes of his. Then he said in a voice lower and more flattering even than he had used to the heiress herself: "I wanted a word with you, Miss Lovelace, I think they call you. It's just this——"
He paused, smiled more broadly all over his handsome face, and added these surprising words:
"What's your game, you two?"
"Game!—I beg your pardon!" I said haughtily. (I hope I didn't show how startled and confused I was. What could he mean by "our game"?)