Van Dusen sat looking down thoughtfully.
“You know,” he said after a pause, “I always had an idea that Miss Barton was not any ordinary young woman. She is so different, don’t you know. I’ll wager she’s some aristocrat. Poor girl, she must have gone through great trouble. Did she show any sign of anxiety when he spoke to her?”
“No, on the contrary, she was very surprised and then very pleased. She kept on blushing whenever he spoke to her—and he—well he sat looking at her as if he couldn’t take his eyes off her face. I was afraid he’d forget himself and begin making love to her right in the restaurant. If ever a man was in love with a girl that Mr. Morton is with Helène, or I don’t know anything about men.”
“What’s Mr. Morton’s business, do you know?”
“No, I don’t, and I believe Helen doesn’t know either. He’s a gentleman, there’s no doubt about that, and as good-looking as they make ’em. His face seems familiar as if I had seen him before; but I can’t place him.”
“Are you thinking of a portrait of a Mr. Morton you saw in the newspapers, Miss Margaret?”
Margaret stared at him for a moment and then exclaimed:
“That’s it! You struck it! That’s just where I did see that face. It’s a strong face with a slightly drooping mustache and gray eyes so calm that you feel small as you look into them. That’s the very man! Who is he?”
“Well,” replied Van Dusen, “if he’s the Mr. Morton whose portrait was in the ‘Tribune’ the other day, he’s John R. Morton of Cleveland.”
“Who is he?”