When we reached Miss Waring's, Mr. Stone sent up his card, asking her to grant him an interview as soon as possible.
In a few moments Millicent Waring appeared. She was a dainty little blonde, with what is known as a society manner, though not marked by foolish affectation.
Fleming Stone introduced himself and then introduced me, in a pleasant way, and with a politeness that would have been admired by the most punctilious of critics.
"Pray do not be alarmed, Miss Waring," he began, "at the legal aspect of your callers."
"Not at all," said the girl, smiling prettily. "I am pleased to meet one of whom I have always stood in awe, and to discover that in appearance, at least, he is not a bit awe-inspiring."
Whether Miss Waring was always so self-poised and at her ease, or whether it was Fleming Stone's magnetic manner that made her appear so, I did not know, but the two were soon chatting like old friends. My part, apparently, was merely that of a listener, and I was well content that it should be so.
"You know Mr. Lawrence?" Mr. Stone was saying. "Mr. George Lawrence?"
"Oh, yes," said the girl; "and I have read in the paper of a dreadful tragedy in his family."
"Yes; his uncle, I believe. You have seen Mr. Lawrence recently, Miss Waring?"