“I’m all ready,” she said distinctly, so that Clifford might not miss a word. “We’ll do as you suggested: motor away back into the country to some small place—get married—and a little money spent judiciously there will keep our marriage quiet as long as we like.” She turned again to Clifford. “I’m sure we have the best wishes of Mr. Clifford.”
He knew that her words, and her straight look, were not now so much challenge or defiance as the bold offering him a second time the chance to speak, and to speak at the most effective moment imaginable. She might be perverse—but of a certainty she had nerve!
“You surely have my wishes that it will all turn out for the very best,” said Clifford; and again he saw surprise in her gaze.
He rode down the elevator with them and walked out to the curb where stood Morton’s machine, a black, closed car with a long hood that bespoke the engine-power of a racer. Morton was swinging open the door when Clifford, trying to keep down the choke that sought to rise in his throat, remarked with attempted good-fellowship:—
“If you don’t mind, Morton, I wish you’d wire me as soon as it’s over. Here at the Grantham.”
“Sure, old man. Step in, Mary.”
Mary started to obey, then checked herself. “May I speak to you a moment, Mr. Clifford?”
They moved a few paces away. She looked at him penetratingly.
“Why have you done this?” she abruptly whispered.
“Done what?” he parried.