For a moment Lockwood was tempted to go back and ask Mrs. Adams to come and tap at the girl’s door.
Then he realized that it was not his affair. If the girl was in sorrow or if she wanted to cry for any reason, it was not his place to send someone to intrude upon her. He went on to his own room, but he sat up for a long time thinking over the strange young woman in the house.
He remembered that she had paid undeviating attention to the lecture, quite evidently following the speaker with attention and interest. He remembered every detail of her appearance, her pretty dark hair showing beneath her little velvet toque,—the absurd buttons on the back of her frock.
“That will do, Gordon, old man,” he told himself at last. Better let her alone. She’s a siren all right, but you know nothing about her, and you’ve no reason to try to learn more.
And then he heard voices in the hall. Low of tone, but angry of inflection.
“She threw it away!” Miss Austin was saying; “I tell you she threw it away!”
“There, there,” came Mrs. Adams’ placating voice, “what if she did? It was only a newspaper scrap. She didn’t know it was of any value.”
“But I want it! Nora has no business to throw away my things! She had no reason to touch it; it was on the dresser—standing up against the mirror frame. What do you suppose she did with it?”
“Never mind it tonight. Tomorrow we will ask her. She’s gone to bed.”
“But I’m afraid she destroyed it!”