"'You see I'm your secretary," she said demurely, "and I'm—I'm paid to be glad, aren't I?"
John Dene's face fell.
"When you get to know her better," said Mrs. West, "you will see that she only teases her friends."
"And her poor mother," put in Dorothy. "When do we resume work, Mr. Dene?" she asked, turning to him.
"We'll go back to-morrow a.m.," he said, obviously relieved at the suggestion.
"But our holidays!" cried Dorothy in mock consternation.
"You can have as long a vacation as you like when I'm through," was the answer, and Dorothy drew a sigh of relief. She was longing to get back to work.
That night she and Mrs. West sat up until dawn was fingering the east, talking of the miraculous reappearance of John Dene of Toronto, as they leisurely packed ready for the morrow.
II
For nearly an hour John Dene had sat in his chair listening. From time to time he gave to the unlit half-cigar in his mouth a rapid twirl with his tongue; but beyond that he had manifested no sign of emotion.