"Yes," said Susan, all quiet shadow now, gleamless; "I'll help you."
Half an hour after I left her she telephoned and dispatched the following telegram, signed "Susan Blake," to Gertrude at her New York address:
"Either come back to him or set him free. Urgent."
VI
The reply—a note from Gertrude, the ink hardly dry on it, written from the Egyptian tomb of the Misses Carstairs—came directly to me that evening; and Mrs. Parrot was the messenger. Her expression, as she mutely handed me the note, was ineffable. I read the note with sensations of suffocation; an answer was requested.
"Tell Mrs. Hunt," I said firmly to Mrs. Parrot, "that it was she who left me, and I am stubbornly determined to make no advances. If she cares to see me I shall be glad to see her. She has only to walk a few yards, climb a few easy steps, and ring the bell."
My courtesy was truly elaborate as I conducted Mrs. Parrot to the door. Her response was disturbing.
"It's not for me to make observations," said Mrs. Parrot, "the situation being delicate, and not likely to improve. But if I was you, Mr. Hunt, I'd not be too stiff. No; I'd not be. I would not. No. Not if I valued the young lady's reputation."
Like the Pope's mule, Mrs. Parrot had saved her kick many years. I can testify to its power.
Thirty minutes later this superkick landed me, when I came crashing back to earth, at the door of the Egyptian tomb.