CHAPTER VI.
THE BLACKMAILER.
After dinner music and merriment resounded through the many rooms of Meadwold. The guests were free to go wherever they chose, and all seemed to feel perfectly at home. A little group had gathered around a girl who was seated at the piano, and Jack Randall led in the familiar songs of old Harvard, being joined by both boys and girls in the choruses.
One of the servants found Casper Steele and spoke a low word to him. Steele left the room, and was absent a few minutes. Returning, he sought for Sparkfair, whom he found chatting in his airiest manner with Agnes Locke, who was holding her own with him in the way of persiflage.
Begging the girl’s pardon, Casper drew Spark aside.
“There’s a friend of yours in the next room, Sparkfair,” he said. “He’s just arrived, and seems very anxious to see you.”
“That’s natural,” said Dale. “My friends can’t bear to be separated from me. It breaks their hearts. Did he send in his autograph?”
“He told me to tell you that he was a classmate from Cambridge.”
“I will flee to him on the wings of the morning—no, I mean the wings of the evening. It’s too late for this morning, and too early for to-morrow morning. But say, old man, don’t let any giddy youth get away with my find, Miss Locke. We’ve been flinging bon mots and chunks of scintillating conversation at each other, and at the present time she has me pretty nearly backed off the map. After holding converse with my friend from Cambridge I’m going out into the cool night air and think up a few neat ones to spring on Miss Locke.”
Spark danced into the adjoining room, but stopped as if shot when his eyes fell on the new arrival. This was a fellow about Dale’s age, with restless black eyes, an unnaturally pale face, and startlingly red lips. He was dressed in a spring suit of the latest cut and most popular style. He wore a bright red necktie.
“Hanks!” breathed Spark, in astonishment.