"What in the name of common sense did you do that for? Didn't you know it was not a thing for you to see?"
Her hands locked on his arm; she leaned against him lifting a haggard glance to his face. Her voice was a husky whisper:
"It's not that, Dick. It wasn't just the dead man. It was—it was—he was my detective—Larkin!"
[CHAPTER XXIX—MISS MAITLAND EXPLAINS]
On Saturday afternoon several telephone messages were sent to Esther Maitland at O'Malley's flat. They came from Ferguson, from Grasslands, and the Whitney office. In the two latter cases they were conciliatory and apologetic and asked that Miss Maitland would see the senders and explain the circumstances that had so strangely involved her in the case.
To both her employers and the Whitneys Miss Maitland returned an evasive answer. She would be happy to do as they asked, but would have to let a few more days pass before she would be free to speak. Meantime she would remain with Mrs. O'Malley, who had offered to keep her, and who had treated her with the utmost kindness and consideration. One request she made—this to the Whitneys—she would like Chapman Price to be advised of her whereabouts. It would be necessary for her to communicate with him before she would be able to explain her share in the mystery.
Ferguson's message had been an importunate demand to let him come to her. She refused, said she would see no one until she was at liberty to clear herself, which would not be for some days yet. Her voice showed a tremulous urgency, a note of pleading, new to his ears and infinitely sweet. But he could not break down her resolution; she begged him to do as she asked, not to seek her out, not to demand any explanations until she was ready to give them. The one favor she granted him was that when the time was up and she could break her silence, he could come for her.
This did not happen until Wednesday. That morning she 'phoned to them all that she could now see them and tell them what they wanted to hear. A meeting was arranged at the Whitney office for three that afternoon and Ferguson went to fetch her.
They met in Mrs. O'Malley's front parlor, considerately vacated and with the folding doors closed against intrusion. Without greeting Ferguson took her hands and held them, looking down into her face. She was beaming, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shy. She began to say something about being at last able to vindicate herself, but he cut her off:
"Before you go into that, I want to say something to you."