"You had my note?" she began.
"Yes. It came while I was away from the hotel, and the regular trip of the Inn brake was the first conveyance I could catch. Am I late?"
Her reply was qualified. "That remains to be seen."
There was a hesitant pause, and then she went on: "Do you know why I sent for you to come."
"No, not definitely."
"I was hoping you would know; it would make it easier for me. You owe me something, Mr. Griswold."
"I owe you a great deal," he admitted, warmly. "It is hardly putting it too strong to say that you have made some part of my work possible which would otherwise have been impossible."
"I didn't mean that," she dissented, with a touch of cool scorn. "I have no especial ambition to figure as a character, however admirable, in a book. Your obligation doesn't lie in the literary field; it is real—and personal. You have done me a great injustice, and it seems to have been carefully premeditated."
The blow was so sudden and so calmly driven home that Griswold gasped.
"An injustice?—to you?" he protested; but she would not let him go on.