He was before her, and handed it to her again.
“Thank you,” said she, quietly, and went in.
It was still twilight, and Arthur lighted a cigar and sat down to a meditation. The result of it was clear enough.
“That head looks like somebody, and that somebody is Hope Wayne’s secret.” Puff—puff—puff.
“Where did I get that head?” He could not remember. “Tut!” cried he, suddenly bringing his chair down upon its legs with a force that knocked his cigar out of his mouth, “I copied it from a head which Jim Greenidge has, and which he says was one of his school-fellows.”
Meanwhile Hope Wayne had carefully locked the door of her room. Then she hurriedly tore the sketch into the smallest possible pieces, laid them in her hand, opened the window, and whiffed them away into the dark.
CHAPTER XXIII. — BONIFACE NEWT, SON, AND CO., DRY GOODS ON COMMISSION.
Abel Newt smoked a great many cigars to enable him to see his position clearly.