“An orphan—and no relations! Perhaps you are one of those independent New York bachelor girls we read about?”
“I live with an aunt. We have an apartment—just a little box of a thing.”
“Indeed. Would it be presuming too much on Jack’s friendship if I might call upon you and your aunt?”
“Aunt Isabel and I will be pleased to have you,” she returned evenly.
“Thank you. If you will find out just when it will be most convenient for her, and let me know through Jack, I’ll be there.”
Clifford had to admire the composure with which she carried herself through this polite but dangerous inquisition—every instant of which, he saw, was an almost unbearable strain upon the suspense-ridden Jack. But by her invention of an aunt, which had opened the way for a proposal to call, he felt that she might have made a fatal slip. But there was no telling: it looked bad, yes,—but she had a faculty, a gift, for smoothly extricating herself from the worst of situations.
Before this cross-examination could proceed further, little Peter Loveman appeared at the table. Clifford instantly surmised the shrewd little lawyer’s motive: he had witnessed the scene, and, knowing its dangers to himself, sought to intervene before there could be exposure and explosion.
“Pardon me for breaking in on your party, Mr. Morton,” he said, with his glib amiability. “But some facts just came to my knowledge which, as your lawyer, I feel you ought to know at once.”
“All right; I was just leaving, anyhow. Jack, I’ve been wanting to see you all day—it’s really very important. I wonder if Miss Gilmore would forgive you, and us, if we left her with Mr. Clifford?”
It had been a scene that had almost crumpled Jack. Mary saved the situation for him by speaking promptly but with composure.