"Very well, dear,"' she said, and forced a smile to her lips. "Did I startle you?"
Armstrong nodded, gravely searching her face. "Yes, Dot. I've never thought of Mac except as a trusted confidant, a friend who would never fail me."
"There's only one person who'll never fail you, dear," she murmured, then started at a sound from below. "Oh—mother's home! Don't tell them about Jimmy Wren's news. It would only worry them—"
"Then pay me for my silence," exclaimed Armstrong happily.
Dorothy felt again that her warning had been useless. And she was right. As he went downstairs, Armstrong was thinking only of Findlater—and the following Wednesday.
BOOK II
"HE WHO DID EAT OF MY BREAD"
CHAPTER I
Mrs. Bird Fowler's apartment reflected, in a high degree, the personality and beauty of its occupant. The large living room was chastely but exquisitely furnished in suspiciously solid mahogany which had, of course, belonged to Mrs. Fowler's great-grandmother. A portrait of the great-grandmother hung over the black marble mantel. Mrs. Fowler's resemblance to that long-dead belle of the blue-grass was quite remarkable; the same sweetly curving features, the same Grecian profile, so purely drawn as to seem chiseled, the same rare hazel eyes and delicately rippling brown hair.
Jimmy Wren thought of this resemblance as he looked up at the portrait and waited. Mrs. Fowler had been summoned to the telephone. He glanced around, relaxing in the beauty and soft luxury of the room; the invisible lighting over piano and music cabinet, the quiet tones of walls and hangings and curtains, the few but excellent pictures.