Millie turned quickly at the mention of her father's pension, remembering that it was time for it to arrive. She reminded her mother of this fact.
Mrs. Jones's gaiety had brief life after Millie's remark. "He ain't back with the mail! I'll bet—"
"Oh, mother!" Millie, deeply concerned, came from behind the desk and went up to the older woman, questioning, "You don't suppose his pension has come?"
"I think it's gone!" Mrs. Jones bowed emphatically in a rising voice and hurried to the desk on the Nevada side, where she took a cursory but none the less exhaustive look at the mail indexes. "I found him hanging around this desk this morning, and when I come in he beat it, sayin', before I could stop him, that he was goin' after the mail. I wonder—" She stopped and gave a deep groan of acquiescence. "Huh! Huh!" She had opened up the top of the desk to find a half-filled flask. "There!" she exclaimed, holding it to the light. "He was waiting for a chance to get this when I shooed him away!"
Millie put her arm around her and drew her into the middle of the room, trying to soothe her. "Anyway, don't let's blame him for anything until we're sure. He may come home perfectly all right. You know he loves the woods and the lake and the autumn coloring which is so wonderful now. He always lingers like this. Please go up-stairs and have a good rest." Millie tried to lead her mother toward the stairs, but Mrs. Jones gently shook the girl's arm from about her waist and went toward the kitchen.
"Where are you going?" Millie asked, standing still, a puzzled frown giving place to an understanding laugh as Mrs. Jones hesitated and looked at the floor, answering in a manner half ashamed: "Why—well—I thought—" she stammered, "he might come home soon, an' he's used to findin' somethin' good kept warm—though he don't deserve it!"
She hesitated, her kindly, better nature shining in her eyes, battling for expression. "Yes—please set a place for him, Millie!" And Mrs. Jones hastily disappeared into the kitchen to avoid the girl's rippling laugh of gentle amusement. Smiling to herself, Millie crossed the lobby and went into the dining-room.
The moment she had left the lobby the street door of the hotel was pushed open cautiously and an inquiring head thrust itself in. The head was that of Bill Jones. Evidently satisfied that the coast was clear, Bill came slowly into the lobby. Looking warily up at the stairs on either side, and toward the dining-room and kitchen doors, he eased himself softly over to the Nevada desk, raised the top and fumbled expectantly inside.