“Mrs. Cameron didn’t favor me with her confidence,” said David, as Avery’s eyes questioned him.
“Oh, well, you’re only a man,” said Swickey. “We talked about lots of things.”
“Didn’t talk about racin’ on snowshoes with Dave, did you?”
“Now, Pop, that’s mean—after my telling you—before supper—”
Avery laughed in huge good-humor.
Swickey’s head nodded and drooped to her arm. Beelzebub, disturbed, stood up and arched his back, yawned, sat on his tail and, stretching his sleek neck, licked her chin with a quick dab of his little red tongue.
“Now—Dave—” murmured Swickey sleepily.
In the Homeric roar of laughter that made the cat jump over her and flatten himself beneath the stove, she wakened, gazed about her, and finally got up with considerable dignity and marched to her bedroom.
CHAPTER XXXI—THE BLUFF
The ruddy face of the sheriff was wreathed in benignant smiles as he sat in the office of the Tramworth House. Cameron was standing by the stove, his hands spread to the warmth. He had just come in from the Knoll in answer to a message from the sheriff.