Slowly the girl nodded. “I’m glad,” she breathed, half to herself. “They told me American men were like this, but I could scarcely believe it. In Europe it would have been very different. I am proud of my half-cousins.” She paused; then answered his question. “Thank you,” she said. “I will take a glass of sherry and a biscuit.”
Caruth touched the bell. “Sherry and crackers, Wilkins,” he ordered briefly.
Not until the tray had been set before them, and the valet had gone, did either of them speak again. Caruth was slowly awakening to the fact that the beauty of the woman before him was not ordinary. It was not alone the perfection of her features that appealed to him. Every detail about her was artistically perfect. Her coloring, the poise of her head, the slim roundness of her taper fingers, the iridescent gleam of her brown hair beneath her wide hat—all satisfied his somewhat critical taste.
Suddenly he realized that he was staring, and, dropping his eyes, he forced himself to speak casually. “Your half-cousins?” he queried, answering her lead. “You are, then——”
“American? Yes! On my mother’s side, but my father is Russian, and I have never been in America until to-night. I like it, Mr. Caruth,” she ended—“what I have seen of it. It rests with you to confirm my opinion.”
Caruth questioned her with his eyes. “Yes?” he answered politely. “I hope I shall be able to do so.”
For a moment the girl did not speak. Her bosom rose and fell a trifle faster. She crumbled her cracker nervously, and her hand shook slightly as she lifted her glass. Caruth, silent, attentive, awaited her pleasure.
“Ten days ago,” she said, at last, “a letter was mailed to you at Stockholm in Sweden. It was not intended for you. It was sent to you by mistake—a mistake realized within a few hours after it had been posted. An effort was made to recover it, but it had already started on its way. Its progress has been traced carefully. It left Brest on the steamship Latourette, which reached quarantine here at eight o’clock to-night. It may be delivered to you at any moment.”
Caruth glanced at the clock and smiled. “I fear you are mistaken,” he objected. “Even if this letter reached the post-office to-night—which seems to me doubtful—it will not be delivered until to-morrow—unless, of course, it has a quick delivery stamp on it.”
The girl nodded. “It has a quick delivery stamp on it,” she rejoined promptly; “and if I understand your post-office methods, it will be delivered very soon. The mail-bags left the ship when I did.”