“It’s all in the hands of the angels, pet! No harm’ll come to you ever.”
Jordan Morse answered Miss Merriweather’s telephone call.
“I want to talk with you,” said she peremptorily.
“I’ll come right up,” replied Morse.
She stood on the porch with her hands tightly locked together when Jordan dashed up the roadway. She walked slowly down the steps.
“What’s up?” demanded Morse.
Molly glanced backward at the quiet home. Theodore’s mother was taking her afternoon siesta, and no one else was about. She slipped her hand into Morse’s arm and led him under the trees.
“Let’s go to the summer house,” she urged.
Once seated, Morse looked at her curiously.