“I hope it’s not the mother,” he said to himself.
But it was Belle, very pale, with violet circles around her eyes and a nervous quivering about the lips.
When Mr. Bangs left the Rogers house after spending three-quarters of an hour with Belle, he remarked as he strolled down the gravel driveway to the street:
“It will have to be an out and out confession from one or the other. If this one doesn’t give it, the Alta girl must. I shall pay my respects to Mme. Alta this evening.”
He had hardly passed through the great iron gateway leading into the street, when Belle, wearing a heavy veil and a long ulster, hurried after him. She carried a music roll under her arm, although she was not taking lessons, since she had been injured in the fire, but it was understood by the servant who opened the door for her that she was going to see Mme. Alta.
CHAPTER XXII.—THE REFUGEES.
A ship had sailed into the little harbor of West Haven on Monday morning. She carried a load of lumber from down the coast and after showing her clearance papers and discharging her cargo with all due formality, she hoisted sails again and moved around the curve of the harbor into a deep inlet, where she rested at anchor in a position just opposite Boulder Lane.
Darkness fell very early that Monday afternoon as those who were not in their homes will remember.
Mr. Bangs will recall the inky blackness of the lowering sky, as he came out of the telegraph office, where he had wired to his chief to send down another man, and turned his steps toward the rooms occupied by Mme. Alta.
Our Motor Maids have not forgotten how they sped back to town after a swift ride in their beloved “Comet,” in the late afternoon, when they discussed the situation long and earnestly.