In spite of all that had happened, a dream had persisted in him. If he spoke the thought that was in his mind, and if that suggestion were accepted and carried to a successful conclusion, it would mean the end, forever, of this persistent dream....
And yet—there was that plan and purpose that had guided his attitude toward Mary Regan these many months: that Mary should be allowed to play her hand out—that Life should test her.
And then, in a flash, he was seeing again the letter he had glimpsed when he had entered Mr. Morton’s room at the Biltmore—that letter with its unmistakable intimation. A flame of anger went searingly through him. Well, given into his hands was a method of putting Mary to the uttermost test—of proving who and what she was: and a method of bringing this whole matter to a head—for Mary—for everybody.
“What is it, man?” Mr. Morton repeated.
“You wouldn’t pay the price,” said Clifford.
“If I could get results I’d pay any price!”
“I’m not so sure you would, but I’ll try you.” Clifford stepped to the little wall telephone, done in gray-and-gold to match the room, and asked for Mary’s number at the Mordona. After a long wait Mary’s voice sounded on the wire.
“This is Clifford,” he said. “I want to see you at once at Le Minuit—very important. Ask Le Bain to show you where I am.... All right.”
“Who is the party?” demanded Mr. Morton when Clifford had hung up.
“I think it best for you not to know until the party comes,” replied Clifford. “The party should be here in half an hour.”