“I have Mr. Harleston for you,” said the operator and switched on the trunk.
“Where are you, Guy?—this is Madeline Spencer,” said she.
“I’m at the Collingwood, Madeline. Anything I can do for you?” was the answer.
“Yes. Be here in an hour; I must see you.”
“Important?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll be there at ten-thirty.”
“You’re always good!” said she softly.
“Not always,” he laughed, “but I will be this time.”
She dressed in feverish haste, yet with great care and attention to effects. Her gown was a lustreless black silk, trimmed with gold and made as plain as her modiste would—and the styles permitted. Her hair was piled high, with an elongated twist; her dead-white complexion was unmarred by powder or rouge, and beneath the transparent skin the blood pulsed softly pink.