“Your jocularity is not greatly appreciated. Now that you have the money, I suggest that you go.”
“As pleases you.” Drawing back the lapel of his slender afternoon coat—it had been a warm afternoon, and he had worn no outer coat—he slipped the bank-notes into the top pocket of his vest. “In leaving you, Mrs.—ah—Grayson, let me wish your little enterprise the most complete success. Good-afternoon.”
Clifford was on the point of springing into the room, when, to his amazement, from the door which opened into the library, there emerged the plump figure of Peter Loveman. On the face of the shrewd little lawyer was a bewildered, almost sickly look, the like of which Clifford had never beheld on that usually amiable and ruddy countenance.
“Just a minute!” said Loveman.
Hilton whirled about. “Oh, it’s Loveman! Hello, Loveman.”
Loveman crossed toward the other. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Just making a little afternoon call. Will you return the courtesy and tell me how you come to be here?”
“I was here when you came, and was waiting until you had gone to finish my talk with Mrs. Grayson.” Clifford could see that the control which had slipped away from Loveman was regained, for the little man was benign again—therefore, dangerous. “Are you sure, Hilton,” he said softly, “that your purpose here was only to call?”
“Merely social, Loveman,” the other replied, smiling.
“I think, Hilton,” continued Loveman, in his soft, pleasant tone, “that anything you got here you’d better return to Mrs. Grayson.”