On the Sunday afternoon following Thanksgiving while the Travelers, old and new, had gathered in Marjorie’s room in serious confab over the momentous happenings of the Thanksgiving holiday, Leslie Cairns had sat lazily stretched in an easy chair in her hotel room, eyes half closed, her dark mind wholly concentrated on an idea which had just introduced itself to her. It was an evil inspiration, born of a group of headlines she had glanced at in one of the Sunday papers.
“I wonder why I never thought of that before,” she had said half aloud as she dipped a hand into a box of nut chocolates on the table beside her and thoughtfully nibbled a cream nut. “I wish I dared ask him to help me. He could do what I want done as quickly as a wink. He couldn’t kick, either, for he has handled more than one such stunt. I think I’ll write him. ‘Nothing venture nothing have.’ I’ll wait a few days until I see how the bus scheme works out, then I’ll write. I’ve never written him since he—since he—.” Leslie’s voice had faltered. She had sat staring into the ruddy embers of the open fire looking less like a malicious mischief-maker and more like a sorrowful young woman than ever before. There was only one person in the world who had ever commanded Leslie’s respect and tenderness. That one was her father.
CHAPTER XIX.
A BUSY INVESTIGATOR
On Monday, Leslie, now elated by her newest plan, relented and called Doris Monroe on the telephone. While she had been ready to condemn Doris for going to the hop, nevertheless she had a thriving curiosity to know what had happened at the dance.
The two girls met by appointment at the Colonial and in a far pleasanter frame of mind than that of the preceding Thursday.
“I may go to New York,” Leslie announced, directly they had found a table to suit their difficult fancy and seated themselves. “I’m expecting a letter or a telegram from”—Leslie checked herself abruptly—“from a dear friend,” she continued. “Even if I shouldn’t hear from this friend I may go anyway.”
“And, of course, I can’t get leave of absence to go with you.” Doris spoke pettishly, dissatisfaction looming large on her perfect features. “We made a mistake in not going there at Thanksgiving. You could have gone. It rained too hard for you to attend to any business about your garage site.”
“That’s all you know about it,” Leslie indulged in one of her silent laughs. “I was very busy in town on Thanksgiving morning. Don’t get New Yorkitis, Goldie. We’ll go to little old N. Y. for the Easter vacation. Maybe our house will be open then,” she predicted hopefully. She felt signally cheered even by the remote prospect.
Leslie had already begun the composition of a letter to her father. She wrote, crossed out and re-wrote. She had not yet evolved from her labor the letter she hoped would soften her father’s unforgiving heart.