"In your auto runabout—on the Fenton road to Tippecanoe—at two this afternoon. Will that do?"
"Yes. I'll be there. Good-by." And she rang off.
She turned from the telephone with a glance at Richard. He was busy with the blowpipe—no doubt had not even heard. As she was leaving to go up to the house for dinner, she said to him: "I'll not be back this afternoon."
"All right," replied he. "I sha'n't need you till to-morrow morning."
"I'll be here, then, of course."
He turned on the high stool. "You know," said he, with only the faintest suggestion of the unusual in face and voice, "there's no reason why you shouldn't see anyone you wish, at your own house."
She flushed guiltily. But her composure instantly returned, and she went on toward the door, casting about for a reply.
"I've no desire to interfere," continued he. "But—Jimmie went to Fenton on an errand yesterday, and he happened to tell me he saw at a distance a man who looked enough like Gallatin to be his twin. If you should be seen—you know how they gossip here. You could send the boy and Helen over to Wenona for the afternoon. Pardon my suggesting these things. It occurred to me you might not realize how closely you're watched by everybody, since the divorce."
She stood in the outer doorway, trying to conceal her agitation and trying to reflect.
"I appreciate you'd rather see him elsewhere—and I'd prefer you did, too. But your son has his rights—don't you think?"