Masculine demonstration is not particularly pleasing to a man of Anglo-Saxon blood and Dr. Ware, in order to prevent a further exhibition of it, drew away slightly and offered his guest a fresh cigar.
Monsieur Grémond shook his head. “I will not smoke—I will do nothing but ask you questions—if I may. Oh! you cannot think what it means to know I have found her!”
“Have you been searching for Miss Julie Dale?” asked the Doctor, puffing clouds of smoke into the air.
“Searching? Ah, if you but knew! I have been across your continent to California only to learn that she had long ago left there and come to your eastern coast, presumably here, though no one at the hotel knew definitely about her.”
“You are especially interested in Miss Dale, I take it,” said the Doctor quietly. “In that case perhaps I should tell you that I stand somewhat in the relation of a guardian to her and her sister. You may talk quite frankly with me if you care to do so.”
It was impossible to restrain or even resent the hand-shake with which the younger man expressed his appreciation.
“The Fates have been kind!” was his exclamation. “I am rewarded for my bitter disappointment. Is Monsieur Dale dead?” he asked suddenly.
“Not dead, but so ill that he is no longer able to look out for their interests—the privilege, therefore, devolves upon me.”
“I wish to marry Mademoiselle Julie,” said the Frenchman with a directness Dr. Ware liked. “I came to this country chiefly for the purpose of taking her back with me. I knew them at Los Angeles two years ago and Monsieur Dale liked me—at least I do not think he disliked me, for he allowed me to be much in his daughters’ society. I realize that to you I am quite unknown, but Renshawe will vouch for me and any questions you may care to ask about my family or my future I shall be most happy to answer.”
“Thank you.” There was silence for a moment and then the Doctor said slowly, “Have you reason to suppose that Miss Dale will marry you?”