“Who are you?” she asked, with a lovely smile that robbed the words of all curtness.
“I am Norah MacCormack, Miss Raynor,” my stenographer replied. “I am in Mr. Brice’s office, across the hall. This is Mr. Brice.”
There was no reason why Norah should be the one to introduce me, but we were all a little rattled, and Mr. Talcott, who, of course, was the one to handle the situation, seemed utterly at a loss as to how to begin.
“How do you do, Mr. Brice?” and Miss Raynor flashed me a special smile. “And now, Mr. Talcott, tell me what’s the matter? I see something has happened. What is it?”
She was grave enough now. She had suddenly realized that there was something to tell, and she meant to have it told.
“I don’t know, Miss Raynor,” Talcott began, “whether anything has happened, or not. I mean, anything serious. We—that is,—we don’t know where Mr. Gately is.”
“Go on. That of itself doesn’t explain your anxious faces.”
So Talcott told her,—told her just what we knew ourselves, which was so little and yet so mysterious.
Olive listened, her great, dark eyes widening with wonder. She had thrown off her fur coat and was seated in Amos Gately’s desk-chair, her dainty foot turning the chair on its swivel now and then.
Her muff fell to the floor, and, unconsciously, she drew off her gloves and dropped them upon it. She said no word during the recital, but her vivid face showed all the surprise and fear she felt as the tale was told.