“I wonder what happens after I sign?” he asked himself. “It appears to be a lucky thought of some sort.”
He spread his bold signature across the first blank line and placed the name of his hotel under it. Then she took the book and carefully blotted the page; watching her keenly he saw the fixed attention which she gave what he had written, and again saw the swift color sweep into her face. Then she placed the book carefully in the desk, once more, and leaning back in the office chair looked at him. He gasped in rapture; for she was smiling.
“Do you know, Mr. Kenyon,” she said, “I cannot altogether get rid of the notion that you had other things in your mind that you have not mentioned, when you came here to-night.”
“It is quite possible,” returned he, coolly. “Under certain circumstances one does not immediately plunge into the matters which interest one most.”
“You came to ask certain questions, did you not?” She placed her elbows upon the desk and her chin in her palms. For the first time Kenyon noticed the beauty of her hands. “Questions upon matters on which you think information might be of service to you.”
“Precisely.” His admiration blunted his observation; he did not notice that she was entertained by his even manner. “There is information which I fancy would relieve my mind to a greater or less extent. There are facts which have been dancing on ahead of me, so to speak, too elusive to grasp, but interesting enough to make it worth while to try.”
“I think I understand. And it might be some balm to you to know that you have not been alone in this.”
“I do not think,” said Kenyon, slowly, “that you refer to yourself. It is not possible.”
She raised her brows inquiringly, but said nothing.
“A girl of your parts should find no difficulty in obtaining information. There is a bird, I believe, that always waits until some other bird has built a nest. Then it calmly takes possession. I have always thought this a serviceable talent.”