There was a tap at the door. “May I come in?” It was Mary Considine’s voice. I remembered what she had asked me in the garden that morning. “I hope I’m not intruding,” she spoke in unusually low tones, “or not interrupting any important conference. Am I? Be sure and tell me if I am.”
“Not at all,” responded Anthony. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I wanted a little consultation with you, Mr. Bathurst—didn’t Bill tell you—I asked him to tell you this morning? Did you forget, Bill?”
I pleaded guilty with apologies to both my companions.
“I am entirely at your service,” exclaimed Anthony. “Where would you like this little chat to take place? Here? Or elsewhere?”
“Here will be as convenient to me as anywhere, Mr. Bathurst—that is if you have no objection?”
“I?” He laughingly disclaimed any such idea. “None at all. Now, what have you got to tell me?”
Mary shot him a swift glance from under those long-lashed lids of hers. “What makes you think I have anything to tell you, Mr. Bathurst?” she asked.
He smiled one of his irresistibly-attractive smiles. “I think it’s a fairly safe conclusion to which to come. You want a consultation with me. You would hardly put it in that way if you required any information from me—would you—therefore, I imagine you have something to tell me. Am I wrong?”
She flung herself on to the edge of the billiard-table and sat there—dainty and well-shod. She was always as fit as a fiddle and better at games than a good many men. She played a smashing good game of tennis, was a steady bat and bowled quite a good ball—slow, with a deceptive flight that did a little bit both ways—was a good hand with a golf-club, and could make a hundred on the billiard-table in double quick time. As I’ve said before in this history—Mary Considine was a peach.