“Your hair wants smoothing,” she said, stroking his abundant locks. “Sit down and let me put it into shape. It is tossed like a lion’s mane.”
“Well, well, I suppose I will have to give in. A man cannot enjoy his troubles in any comfort where you are.”
“It was bothers a minute ago. Now it is troubles. What will it be next, I wonder?” she said, as she hovered about him, tastefully arranging his hair. “What has ruffled you, Uncle Harry? I want to know.”
“So that you can tell your bosom friends, Miss Milton and Annie Jones?”
“My lips are sealed to silence, sir,” she said, with mock dignity. “It is a secret, then? So much the better. I dote on secrets. I would not divulge it for an ocean of silver. What is it? Murder, arson, or burglary? Something delightfully horrible, I hope.”
She looked the spirit of mischief, as she stood over him, in her gray evening dress, her black, waving hair, and sparkling eyes in strong contrast, while a color sash, and a gay bow at her throat, broke the uniformity. It was the forfeit which her lover, John Elkton, had given her.
“I am in earnest, Jennie. I want you to be secret,” he said, gravely. “Your last guess is the right one. It is a robbery that frets me.”
“Robbery!” she cried, with parted lips. “Well, I declare! Was it serious? Was your store broken into last night?”
“Nothing so commonplace as that, or there would be no secret about it. There is a mystery connected with the affair which obliges us to be circumspect, lest we should put the villains on their guard.”
“Well, really!” she cried, with childish excitement, taking a chair, and seating herself beside him. “Go on, uncle, I am so eager to learn all about it. Maybe I could be of some help.”