A voice, a petulant female voice, called from the head of the stairs.
“Johnson,” it quavered, “who is it? Mabel, is that you?”
The library door flew open and Mr. Colton himself appeared.
“Eh? What?” he exclaimed. “By George! Mabel, where have you been? I have been raising heaven and earth to locate you. The 'phone seems to be out of order and—Great Scott, girl! you're wet through. Jenkins, what—? Hey? Why, it isn't Jenkins!”
The fact that his daughter's escort was not the coachman had just dawned upon him. He stared at me in irate bewilderment. Before he could ask a question or his daughter could speak or explain there came a little shriek from the stairs, a rustle of silken skirts, and a plump, white-faced woman in an elaborate house gown rushed across the hall with both white arms outstretched.
“Mabel!” she cried, “where HAVE you been. You poor child! I have been almost beside myself, and—”
Miss Colton laughingly avoided the rush. “Take care, Mother,” she warned. “I am very wet.”
“Wet? Why! you're absolutely drenched! Jenkins—Mabel, where is Jenkins? And who is this—er—person?”
I thought it quite time for me to withdraw.
“Good night, Miss Colton,” I said, and stepped toward the door. But “Big Jim” roared my name.