“Wait!” Clifford called sharply to them. “Mr. Morton, I prefer to have them remain.”
Mr. Morton stared. “Just as you like.”
“Loveman, Bradley, your request is granted,” said Clifford.
And then a further possibility flashed upon Clifford. Since Hilton had communicated with Loveman and Bradley, what more likely than that they should still be able to communicate?—which would mean that Hilton was close at hand on the lookout. And if that were true, what more likely than that when Mary drove up—
Before this thought had completed itself Clifford had started out. But even as he laid hand upon the knob there was a knock. He swung open the door, and Mary, a light summer cloak thrown loosely about her shoulders, stepped into the room.
“I’m here—what is it?” she said as she entered.
“Miss Gilmore!” exclaimed Mr. Morton, using the name by which he had best known her.
She glanced swiftly and keenly from one to the other of the three unexpected men. Then she wheeled upon Clifford.
“What’s this you’ve led me into?” she demanded—“a plant?”
“Bradley and Loveman are uninvited, and were not here when I telephoned,” he explained. Then he went on in a quiet, dominating, driving voice. “I didn’t tell you whom you were really to meet, and I didn’t tell Mr. Morton who was coming, for the reason that I felt you might each refuse to see the other. Pardon my subterfuge. But I sent for you, Miss Gilmore, because Mr. Morton wished to talk to you about Jack.”