“Now come de big speech.”
The Honorable David Beasley, carrying a small mahogany table, stepped out from beyond the Christmas-tree, advanced to the centre of the room; set the table down; disappeared for a moment and returned with a white water-pitcher and a glass. He placed these upon the table, bowed gracefully several times, then spoke:
“Ladies and gentlemen—” There he paused.
“Well,” said Mr. Simeon Peck, slowly, “don't this beat hell!”
“Look out!” The “Journal” reporter twitched his sleeve. “Ladies present.”
“Where?” said I.
He leaned nearer me and spoke in a low tone. “Just behind us. She followed us over from your boarding-house. She's been standing around near us all along. I supposed she was Dowden's daughter, probably.”
“He hasn't any daughter,” I said, and stepped back to the hooded figure I had been too absorbed in our quest to notice.
It was Miss Apperthwaite.
She had thrown a loose cloak over her head and shoulders; but enveloped in it as she was, and crested and epauletted with white, I knew her at once. There was no mistaking her, even in a blizzard.