“Send him up,” said Donald to the boy at the door, as he closed it.
“I wonder who he can be?” Edith asked in mystified tone.
“Possibly a bill-collector,” said Mrs. Pope sarcastically.
“Hardly, at this time of the night.” Donald looked at his watch. “It’s almost eight-thirty.” He took a match from the desk, and carefully relighted his half-smoked cigar.
Mrs. Pope rose. “Alice, I think we had better be going,” she remarked, with a frown.
“Nonsense, mother. Sit down. You’ve only just come. There is some beer on the ice.” She paused, and Mrs. Pope relapsed into her chair with sudden promptness. “Very well, Edith, if you insist,” she said resignedly.
“Let’s make a welsh rabbit,” suggested Alice, looking up from her magazine. As she spoke the door-bell rang. Her sister hurried over to the door and threw it open.
Mr. Brennan came in with a slight show of hesitation, looking about him curiously. The household of the persons who were to have the spending of West’s fortune had a peculiar interest for him. What sort of persons were they? he had asked himself half a hundred times since he left his office. “This is Mrs. Rogers’ apartment?” he inquired, as he came in.
“Yes,” answered Edith, returning his glance of scrutiny with interest.