“Oh, I shall want to! But don’t set the time too far—”
The telephone on her desk began to ring. In relief at the interruption she seized it—but the relief was gone as she heard the voice that came over the wire.
“Yes, I’m alone,” she replied into the mouthpiece. “You may see me right away.”
“Who was that?” asked Morton as she hung up.
“My husband.”
“My cue for a quick exit! Remember, my dear”—he seized both her hands—“we’re going to have that little cruise just the same. I’ll give orders—”
“You must hurry,” she interrupted. While he had been speaking, she had reached quickly behind her back, opened a little drawer and thrust into it her hand. “You must hurry,” she repeated, and urgently pressed her hands against him—and while doing so she slipped the envelope containing the ten one-thousand-dollar bills into the inner pocket of his coat. “Go, please! Good-bye!”
The next instant he was gone. Mary sank into a chair beside her window. She had won thus far through her wit and her will; but wit and will would serve her no further; she was spent—utterly spent. What was her culminating scene, the scene that would end her, lay just before her, and for it she had neither strength nor subterfuge nor courage. She had fought, through sheer force of habit, to the end—and at the end, which was only a moment ahead, she had lost. So she leaned back in her chair, limp, her eyes closed....
But spent as she was she was sufficiently alive for her curiosity to respond to a matter that again recurred to her. Clifford had known of her whereabouts, possibly of her purpose. Why had he not interfered?... Why?...
A minute or two passed; then she became aware that some one had entered and had crossed to her side. She slowly opened her eyes, and wearily arose, and regarded Maisie Jones dully, indifferent to denunciation or threats or furious acts.