CHAPTER X
THE SPIDER
“Hullo. Is this Mrs. Morena?”
Betty held the receiver languidly. Her face had grown very thin and her eyes were patient. They were staring now absently through the front window of Woodward Kane’s sitting-room at a day of driving April rain.
“Yes. This is Mrs. Morena.”
The next speech changed her into a flushed and palpitating girl.
“Mr. Gael wishes to know, madam,”—the man-servant recited his lesson automatically,—“if you have seen the exhibition of Foster’s water-colors, Fifty-eighth Street and Fifth Avenue. He wants to know if you will be there this afternoon at five o’clock. No. 88 in the inner room is the picture he would especially like you to notice, madam.”
Betty’s hand and voice were trembling.
“No. I haven’t seen it.” She hesitated, looking at the downpour. “Tell him, please, that I will be there.”