“So am I,” said the voice.
“But she’s engaged—I assure you—”
“I’ll only take a minute or two. Come on; you shall introduce me. Don’t hang back.”
The next moment Loveman was pushed through the door, and behind him appeared the tall figure of Mr. Morton, evening clothes showing beneath his overcoat. He stopped short at what he saw.
“Why, Mr. Clifford!” he exclaimed. And then: “Why, I beg your pardon, Miss Gilmore! Or should I say Mrs. Grayson?”
Clifford saw that Mary had gone almost white. He sensed, and he knew that she sensed, that one of the supreme crises of her new life—the life that was to make her or break her—was unexpectedly before them.
Mary spoke calmly. “It is Mrs. Grayson now.”
“How rapidly events do happen in New York,” Mr. Morton remarked politely, his keen gray eyes full upon her. “Miss Gilmore when I saw you at the Grantham—Mrs. Grayson within a week. He must be a young Lochinvar, Mr. Grayson, the way he does things.”
Hilton had been standing beyond Clifford, blocked out of Mr. Morton’s first swift survey of the scene. He now shifted forward, and Mr. Morton saw him, the grip of Clifford fastened on his upper arm, and the glinting handcuffs on his wrists.
“What’s this all about?” Mr. Morton exclaimed.