“So, my dear Mrs. Hartmann, I was, but the Northertons, you see, have returned, and I had hoped to have done some touring with the old gentleman.”
“Or perhaps with Miss Lena. No, don’t look so innocent, for she tells me more than you think. But what of this return? I had a note from her when she was in Paris, but she said nothing about it?”
“Some will business,” I explained. “You will be glad to hear she comes in for £5000 by it.”
“A nice little nest-egg to begin house-keeping upon. I think, Mr. Stanley, you two young people ought to do very well.”
“I hope so,” I said, foregoing useless secrecy—what a chatterbox Lena could be! “At any rate I see no very dangerous rocks ahead at present.”
THE PHOTOGRAPH.
The conversation wandered for some time among various topics, when I mentioned that I had been looking over the album.
“And very stupid work you must have found it,” she said.
“Oh, it kept me busy while waiting. By the way, one of the photographs is loose,” and I handed her that of her son, this time with the face upwards. The ruse was effective, and the conversation took the desired course.