"Oh—er—excellent."
Rosalind was too deeply engrossed in the exchange of greetings to notice that Polly's hand was clasping her own with desperate energy. The haughty lady whom everybody wished to marry was dumfounded.
Morton had accepted the stranger! Morton—who knew as well as Polly that this was not the Billy Kellogg from whom he had won a year's income!
What did it mean?
"Mr. Kellogg is up to take charge of his uncle's place while Mr. Davidson is away," explained Mrs. Witherbee, breathing a soft sigh of gratification at the absence of animosity between these knights of the gaming-table.
Perspiration streamed down the cheeks of the stout young man. He stared at Morton with the fascination of a bird looking upon the mythically hypnotic serpent. His glance finally wavered and met that of Rosalind. She saw the muscles of his jaw tighten, and watched him while he breathed deeply.
"Oh, I say," he began. "Something's wrong. I—"
Rosalind's head was moving slowly from side to side, and her glare was truly ferocious. The young man stopped. Then all traces of resolution wilted.
"Wrong?" asked Mrs. Witherbee anxiously.
"Why—er—you see—"