Always on the lookout for rising inflections, “Bill” was ever in a position to give prompt replies. He could dispose of the most profound questions almost before they were out of the speaker's mouth. His answer to “Soapy's” query was a broad grin,—for he had detected a sly twinkle in the speaker's eye. He also shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands,—and, to clinch the matter, he winked.
“Now, I don't want to take this important step without being backed-up by some clever, intelligent feller like you, Bill,” went on “Soapy.” “It's all for her good,—and A. A.'s, too, although he won't see it in that light. If you say you think she ought to be told, that's enough for me. If you say she oughtn't,—why, nothing doing. It's up to you, Bill.”
“Bill” was plainly at sea. You can't decide a question that lacks an interrogation point. So all that “Bill” could do was to stare blankly at “Soapy” and wait for something tangible to turn up. Mr. Shay suddenly appreciated the poor fellow's dilemma and supplied the necessary relief.
“What say, Bill?”
Whereupon “Bill” started to shake his head, but, catching the scowl of disapproval on “Soapy's” brow, hastily changed his reply to a vigorous nod.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Shay. “That completely clears my conscience. So long, Bill.”
And half a minute later he presented himself at Ruth Clinton's cabin.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Spofford, as she opened the door. She also opened her eyes very wide, and sent a startled, apprehensive glance over her shoulder into the warm, fire-lit interior. “What do you want?” she demanded querulously of the unexpected visitor.
Mr. Shay took off his hat. “I'd like a few words with Miss Clinton,” he said. “I saw her come in, so she's not out. It's important, ma'am. She will hear something to her advantage, as they say in the personals.”
“Will you please return at three o'clock, Mr. Shay? My niece is resting after the arduous labours of the—”