"You have been crying, my child. Is there something which you have not told me?"
Betty was thankful for the burning blush which swept to her brow.
"I did cry a little, in the car coming home," she admitted. "It was silly of me, I know, but the man frightened me, he was so persistent, and rather fierce. I'm very sorry I failed, Mrs. Atterbury."
"'Failed!' My dear, you have succeeded! You carried out my instructions to the letter, and no one could ask more. I regret that you were annoyed, but the gentleman who came to meet you did not himself understand the situation. I can promise you that you will not have that sort of thing to contend with another time." Mrs. Atterbury's black eyes flashed ominously, but they softened when they rested again upon the girl's face. "Now run and dress, Betty, for we dine very shortly. And remember, child, that I am very well pleased with what you have done, and I shall not forget it."
Betty's heart was heavy, nevertheless, as she obeyed. The adventure at the opera had brought a thrill of excitement and she had given little thought to its possible consequences, but the afternoon through which she had just passed brought a swift revulsion of feeling and she tore off the costly furs as if they stifled her. She was filled with loathing of her task and its instigators and a growing dread of the future. Why was she singled out to be the bearer of these mysterious missives? She had been prepared to carry out the agreement under which she had been engaged, but she shrank from the role of confidential messenger and hoped fervently that she would not soon again be called upon to play it.
The hope was vain, however, for on the following afternoon she found herself again in the car and speeding toward the lower part of town. Her destination on this occasion was not the garish Café de Luxe, but the old Hotel Rochefoucauld on Jefferson Square, whose conservative roof sheltered now only the elect of an older regime, which still clung to the aristocratic purlieus of a bygone generation.
"But if the lady with the orchids does not come this time," Betty had faltered to her employer, when she received her parting instructions, "if the man who met me yesterday appears again, what shall I say to him?"
"He will not, never fear." Mrs. Atterbury had smiled, but the cold light glinted in her eyes once more. "The lady will be there herself, and you need exchange no words with her; just take my letter from her hands and bring it to me."
Betty made her way down the wide, dim corridor of the ancient hostelry to the writing-room to which she had been directed. The heavy velvet curtains at the windows almost wholly obscured the light and she fancied at first that the room was deserted, but as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she descried a small figure half-hidden in a huge leather chair.
As she approached it, she was conscious only of a heap of soft, brown fur with a deep purple blur of orchids nestling in it, but she halted abruptly a few feet away. The other rose slowly and for a moment the two young women stared at each other.