This new promise weighed heavily on his conscience that afternoon when he went home; for Bonnie May, unusually radiant, was waiting for him at the door.
“Mr. Baggot was here to-day,” she began. “He left his play. And he talked to me about it. He said you might keep it as long as you liked.”
“All very kind of Mr. Baggot.” Baron thoughtfully disposed of his hat and cane. When he turned to the child again there was a little furrow between his eyes.
“Bonnie May,” he began, “do you remember my telling you some time ago that Mr. and Mrs. Thornburg would be glad to have you visit them?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“They thought possibly you might have forgotten. They asked me to remind you.”
“Thank you. And he’s made the prettiest copy of it, with red lines drawn under the words you don’t have to learn. Can’t we go up-stairs and see it? I put it in your room.”
“Yes, we’ll go up-stairs.” He was irritated by her supreme indifference to the matter which he had tried to bring to her attention. He meant to have this thing out definitely.
She rushed away in advance of him so impetuously that he paused and looked after her in amazement. The furrow disappeared and he was smiling.
And then the whole strange situation struck him with renewed force. Was she really the daughter of Thornburg, and was he afraid to claim her? Or was there no connection at all between her and the manager, and did he, Baron, hold the trump-cards in that game which meant the permanent possession of her?