“Brother Edward,” said she, “don’t you remember the initials on that portfolio of drawings you had the other night—I mean the drawings made by that pretty bindery girl of yours.”
“Why, what of it?” he asked, with well-assumed carelessness.
“Why, they’re here in this paper. Read this personal: ‘G. E. L.—If you yet live come to your mother quickly—she is dying.’ That must mean your bindery girl. Anna saw it first and brought it to me, and we had a great mind to send it down to you, marked, at the bindery.”
“That would have been folly. There may be a thousand people in the world with those very initials. And, moreover, the initials of the girl alluded to are H. B. Her name is Hattie Butler.”
“That may be an assumed name. The initials on her portfolio were G. E. L., for we all saw it and spoke of it at the time you had it here.”
“Very likely. Is dinner ready? I’m hungry as an owl. And I’ve got to go out to make a call this evening.”
“What, in the fearful storm that is just beginning to rage?”
“Yes. I do not like the storm—it must be terrible on the water—but I promised to make a call at Mr. Legare’s, and I never break a promise.”
“At Mr. Legare’s on Fifth avenue? He who has a son in your club, and a pretty blonde for a daughter?”
“Yes, Flotie.”