CHAPTER IV.
THE MANSARD ROOF.
Again, for the second time, the student of the occult gazed upon his affinity; and again the lovely Typewriter, versed in the higher criticism of Chicago social life, sized up her caller with cosmopolitan grace.
The meeting was relieved of embarrassment by the spontaneous interrogation of the city-bred business woman.
“And what can we do for you today, Mr. Leffingwell?”—sweetly.
“I have come, Miss Sheets,”—murmured Mr. Leffingwell, and he looked directly through the maiden at the wall paper,—“I have come to invite you, to implore you, to go with me to—to—to—stroll with me. Walls—walls—that is, some of them, have ears. I would be alone with you. There is much of moment to impart to you—to you alone. There is a secret—”
“That catches me,”—broke in the beauty, and she rose, donning her picture hat hastily, and grabbing her long-handled umbrella and many-buttoned kids.
“Well, come along, Mr. Leffingwell; I’m ready”—and the dear girl’s hand was on the hall door-knob.