“We have a stock farm, and there's room for just such a man as you. Will you take it?”
“Will I, ma'am?” His voice was rich with gratitude and enthusiasm. “Show me to it. I'll dig right in to-morrow. And I can sure promise you one thing, ma'am. You'll never be sorry for lending Hughie Luke a hand in his trouble—”
“I thought you said to call you Dave,” she chided forgivingly.
“I did, ma'am. I did. And I sure beg your pardon. It was just plain bluff. My real name is Hughie Luke. And if you'll give me the address of that stock farm of yours, and the railroad fare, I head for it first thing in the morning.”
Throughout the conversation she had never relaxed her attempts on the bell. She had pressed it in every alarming way—three shorts and a long, two and a long, and five. She had tried long series of shorts, and, once, she had held the button down for a solid three minutes. And she had been divided between objurgation of the stupid, heavy-sleeping butler and doubt if the bell were in order.
“I am so glad,” she said; “so glad that you are willing. There won't be much to arrange. But you will first have to trust me while I go upstairs for my purse.”
She saw the doubt flicker momentarily in his eyes, and added hastily, “But you see I am trusting you with the three hundred dollars.”
“I believe you, ma'am,” he came back gallantly. “Though I just can't help this nervousness.”
“Shall I go and get it?”
But before she could receive consent, a slight muffled jar from the distance came to her ear. She knew it for the swing-door of the butler's pantry. But so slight was it—more a faint vibration than a sound—that she would not have heard had not her ears been keyed and listening for it. Yet the man had heard. He was startled in his composed way.