Clifford Heath threw off his listlessness and looked up with his usual cheery smile.
"Why, Ray, you young dog," he cried, "you beseech me like a veritable tramp, just as if you were not as welcome as the sunshine; come along, you shall share my bed, and board, and—I'll be hanged if you shan't share the daily dose of abuse I have to take from my old housekeeper. I'll make a special arrangement to that effect."
"Thanks, Heath," replied Ray, and then he turned to the window to hide the fire that burned in his cheeks, because of the deceit he was practicing upon this open-hearted friend. "But it's all for his benefit," he thought; "at least I hope so."
"Well!" said the doctor, moving uneasily in his chair; "I hope your mission prospered."
"Oh, yes," carelessly.
"You—found Miss Wardour well, I hope?"
"Quite well; only wanting my valuable assistance in a little scheme she has on foot, a sort of benefit affair." And Ray congratulated himself on the adaptability of his answer.
"Is it too late to drive, Heath?"
But the doctor made no answer to this question, nor did he seem to hear it. Rising, he walked to the window, looked down thoughtfully into the street for a moment, then, without turning, he said:
"Rumor says, that Miss Wardour will marry Lamotte."