In spite of her indignant protests and her contrary plans, Hester appeared at the garage the next morning shortly before ten. There seemed nothing else for her to do. Hour after hour through the night the troubled girl had sought for some different course and had found nothing. Somehow this chauffeur had discovered her other name, the name she had given to the police, Jenny Regan, and she could not make any move until she found out how much more he knew. She could not carry out her plan of restitution nor confide in Betty Thompson until she learned what was back of Anton's ugly, threatening attitude. He was not bluffing, she felt sure of that.
The chauffeur received her with a business-like nod. He was cleaning the big car.
"Hello, little one! I took the old man to the station this morning. I'll be through in a minute. Sit down." And she watched him give the last skillful touches to the shining machine.
"Now, then, just a second to wash these paws of mine. There! And another to light a cigarette. Have one?" He offered her the open case.
"Thanks, I don't smoke."
He shrugged his shoulders. "You don't have to be so careful. We're alone."
She tried to hide her uneasiness under a careless tone.
"You're rather fresh this morning, Mr. Anton."
He drew up a wooden chair and seated himself so close to her that their knees were almost touching.
"Now listen," he said, and his eyes were on her keenly. "We're going to talk straight. I'll tell you how we stand and—first I'll tell you this. I like you, girlie, but I'm onto you."