“Quite a stranger!” he repeated.
“But—how did you get my note?” asked the girl.
“It was given to me,” he answered.
He saw Mrs. Jones and the girl exchange a glance.
“If I hold my tongue and wait,” he thought, “they’ll surely have to tell me something.”
“But I don’t—” the girl began, when, to Ross’s amazement, Mrs. Jones gave him a vigorous push forward.
“You’re the new chauffeur!” she whispered, fiercely.
Then he heard footsteps in the hall. He stood well inside the room, now; a large room, furnished with quiet elegance. It was what people called a boudoir, he thought, as his quick eye took in the details; a dressing table with rose shaded electric lights and gleaming silver and glass; a little desk with rose and ivory fittings; a silver vase of white chrysanthemums on the table.
“I’m afraid we can’t take you,” said Mrs. Jones, in an altogether new sort of voice, brisk, and a little loud. “I’m sorry.”
Ross was very well aware that some one else had come to the door and was standing behind him. He was also aware of a sort of triumph in Mrs. Jones’s manner. She thought she was going to get rid of him. But she wasn’t.