“I think she’s gone out, Mr. Rivers, she was about to go as I left. If you telephone you’ll likely catch her.”
Quite unembarrassed at our knowing smiles, Rivers took up my desk-telephone and called Olive’s number. While waiting for the response he picked up a pencil from my pen-tray, and idly drew a snow crystal on the big desk-blotter.
I watched him, for his skill fascinated me. He drew the dainty six-sided figure with the accuracy of a designer. The tiny fronds, all six alike, made a lovely hexagonal form as it grew beneath his fingers.
He was apparently unconscious of what he was doing, and drew without thinking, for he spoke to us several times while waiting for the desired connection.
At last Olive answered him, and he dropped the pencil and talked to her. In a wheedlesome mood, he persuaded her to defer her proposed errand until he could join her and he would accompany her. The kindly familiarity with which he carried on the conversation and the jaunty assurance he showed that she would accede to his request proved to us, listeners perforce, that there was good comradeship between them.
Rivers hung up the receiver, and turned to me with a boyish smile. “I’m going now,” he said, “Miss Raynor is waiting for me. I’ll see you again, tonight, Brice.” And with a general nod of farewell he went off.
Zizi sat staring at my desk.
The strange child was thinking of something,—more, she had made a discovery, or had sensed some new information.
She leaned over the desk, her outstretched hands resting on the big blotter and her black eyes wide with an expression of surprised fear.
“Look!” she cried; “look!”