He reflected a moment, and then, holding out his hand with a cheery smile: "Betty, yer my kind! Yer Bryce Thompson's daughter! There! I don't mind tellin' ye this fits in with a plan I had and—yes, ye can try it. Ye can be my secretary. Say, won't that shame the relatives?"
Thus they settled upon an arrangement that was destined to have important consequences.
This night they spent in town for the pleasure of a theatre, and the next morning Betty passed in a flutter of hurried preparations, for she suddenly realized that one of her Paquin gowns was not the most suitable garment for a serious-minded secretary to be wearing when she arrived at the scene of her duties. There was no reason why she should give Mrs. Baxter's relatives (who did not know her, thank heaven) the satisfaction of realizing, by any outward sign, how complete was the downfall of poor Betty Thompson. So she hurried into her plainest black frock, a very chic creation, nevertheless, and was waiting demurely in the taxicab when Hiram and his wife appeared.
And now, just as they were starting for the station, there came a long distance telephone message for Baxter, something important, the operator said.
"Who d'ye s'pose it was, Eleanor?" beamed Hiram a few moments later, as he hurried back. "Ye'll have to get a move on, friend," he warned the driver, as they shot away.
"The Baroness Dunwoodie?" guessed Mrs. Baxter.
"The Bishop of Bunchester?" guessed Betty.
"Wrong, both of ye." Then he turned to his wife with a happy smile. "Dearie, it's Bob."
"Bob!" exclaimed the mother.
"Bob Baxter, sure as guns!"