"Miss Iverson?" she called. "Is that you at last? Thank Heaven! I thought you were never coming. Are mother and Godfrey still in the dining-room? Good! Will you do me a favor? It's a big one—vital."
I expressed my willingness to do Miss Morris a vital favor.
"Thank you," she said. "Then please do exactly what I tell you. Go to the hotel desk and ask the clerk for the key to my suite. I left it with him. Then go up to my bedroom. On my dressing-table you'll find an open letter I dropped there—or perhaps it's on the floor. Conceal it in your bosom, the way they do in books, and keep it for me till we meet."
I gasped. With a rush, my mind leaped at some of the possible results of carrying out this startling suggestion.
"Really, Miss Morris," I protested, "I can't do that. Suppose some one caught me in the act? It's likely to happen. We're at dessert, and I heard your mother order the coffee brought up to her sitting-room. Isn't the letter safe till you get home?"
There was a sharp exclamation at the other end of the line. Then Miss Morris's voice came to me again, in the controlled accents of desperation.
"Miss Iverson," she urged, "you've simply got to help me out! If my mother goes into my room and sees that letter, she'll read it. She'll think it's her duty. If she reads it—well, in plain words, there will be the devil to pay. Now do you understand?"
"But why not come home and get it yourself?" I persisted.
"I can't. There isn't time. I'm away down at the Lafayette. Heavens! I didn't mean to let that slip out, I'm so nervous I don't know what I'm saying. Don't tell a soul where I am. Don't even let any one know I've talked to you. And you must get that letter. There isn't a minute to lose!"
It began to look as if I had to get that letter. And since the thing must be done, I wanted it over.