“Why—yes. But I can send for you, if you insist—only—you know they’re poor as poverty——”
“I want the walk, and I’ll catch the trolley—thank you. If I should be a bit late——”
“Oh, I’ll hold the thing for you—and—well, it’s certainly very good of you, Mr. Black. I admit I like to see such things done right myself.”
The conversation ended here, and Black ran for his trolley, with only time to snatch a small, well-worn black leather handbook from his desk. He had no time for a change of clothes—which he wouldn’t have made in any case, though he was not accustomed to dress in clerical style upon the street, except in so far as a dark plainness of attire might suggest his profession rather than emphasize it.
He had two minutes to spare on a street corner, waiting for his car. On that corner was a florist’s shop. Catching sight of a window full of splendid roses he rushed in, gave an order which made the girl in charge work fast, and managed to speed up the whole transaction so successfully that when he swung on to the moving step he had a slim box under his arm. Only a dozen pink rosebuds—Black had never bought florist’s roses in armfuls—but somehow he had felt he must take them. How account for this impulse—since the Scotch are not notably impulsive? But—right here it will have to be confessed that Black had in his veins decidedly more than a trace of Irish blood. And now it’s out—and his future history may be better understood for the admission.
Some time after Black had caught his trolley, R. P. Burns, M.D., brought his car to a hurried standstill in front of Jane Ray’s shop in the side street, and all but ran inside. The shop was empty at the moment, and Jane came forward at his call. He put a quick question:
“Have you heard anything of Sadie Dunstan lately?”
“Nothing—for a long time. I can’t even find out where she has gone.”
“I can tell you—but it will startle you. There’s no time to break it gently, or I would. She got into trouble, and—came home to—die.”
Jane was looking him straight in the face as he spoke, and he saw the news shock her, as he had known it would. Sadie Dunstan was a little, fair-haired girl who had been Jane’s helper in the shop for a year, and in whom Jane had taken great interest. Then she had gone away—West somewhere—had written once or twice—had failed to write—Jane had unwillingly lost track of her. And now—here was Burns and his news.