“Happy as——”
Her eyelids closed at the touch of his lips. Happy as who? She wondered. Happy as Cain—that was the meaning of the dreadful look she had surprised. But she had banished that look. Since she must sleep that his mind might rest—— How wonderful was this state called happiness. How precious was each small opportunity to prove how very much——
“Fold your wings, my white dove,” he murmured again and again. “Sleep, my mate. I love you. Sleep.”
A hysterical yelp awakened her. Evidently the Airedale, too, had been startled from sound slumber. How long had she been asleep—for how many minutes or hours had John Cabot sat there motionless, his eyes on her face?
She raised on one elbow and looked into the outer room. The little undergraduate from the A. K. C., more from hereditary instinct than any wisdom of his own months, had bolted his bed of honor. One backward glare he spared to learn whether he was to be justified in raising the alarm; then, bristling from stiff chin whiskers to flag-staff tail, rushed into the corridor. His master followed.
Dolores tried hard to understand. Her head felt strange and understanding hurt it. Many sentences of the colloquy outside were not clear at the time, but came back to her afterward. Besides the voice of John Cabot, she recognized the distressed mezzo of Morrison, the startled quaver of old Bradish and an unrecognized duet in bass.
“We are all of that, Mr. Cabot—from the Domestic Detectives, Incorporated,” sounded the first strange voice, evidently in answer to some question or comment from John.
“And just in time, at that”—the second.
“Has Annette gone yet, Morrison?”