SHE wrote Garvey asking an appointment. The reply should have come the next day or the next day but one at the farthest; for Garvey had been trained by Brent to the supreme courtesy of promptness. It did not come until the fourth day; before she opened it Susan knew about what she would read—the stupidly obvious attempt to put off facing her—the cowardice of a kind-hearted, weak fellow. She really had her answer—was left without a doubt for hope to perch upon. But she wrote again, insisting so sharply that he came the following day. His large, tell-tale face was a restatement of what she had read in his delay and between the lines of his note. He was effusively friendly with a sort of mortuary suggestion, like one bearing condolences, that tickled her sense of humor, far though her heart was from mirth.
"Something has happened," began she, "that makes it necessary for me to know when Mr. Brent is coming back."
"Really, Mrs. Spencer——"
"Miss Lenox," she corrected.
"Yes—Miss Lenox, I beg your pardon. But really—in my position—I know nothing of Mr. Brent's plans—and if I did, I'd not be at liberty to speak of them. I have written him what you wrote me about the check—and—and—that is all."
"Mr. Garvey, is he ever—has he——" Susan, desperate, burst out with more than she intended to say: "I care nothing about it, one way or the other. If Mr. Brent is politely hinting that I won't do, I've a right to know it. I have a chance at something else. Can't you tell me?"
"I don't know anything about it—honestly I don't, Miss
Lenox," cried he, swearing profusely.
"You put an accent on the 'know,'" said Susan. "You suspect that I'm right, don't you?"
"I've no ground for suspecting—that is—no, I haven't. He said nothing to me—nothing. But he never does. He's very peculiar and uncertain . . . and I don't understand him at all."
"Isn't this his usual way with the failures—his way of letting them down easily?"