Whatever doubts may have assailed him when it was too late, by that remark were effaced, silenced. Who could mistrust her sincerity?…
"Then when and where may I see you again?" he demanded.
"The same place."
It was a bold move; but she was standing; the waiter was back, announcing the cab in waiting, and he dared not protest. Yet his pat riposte commanded her admiration.
"No. Too risky. If they are watching here, they may be there, too." He shook his head decidedly. The flicker of doubt was again extinguished; for undoubtedly Maitland had escorted her home that morning; her reference had been to that place. "Somewhere else," he insisted, confident that she was playing fair.
She appeared to think for an instant, then, fumbling in her pocket-book, extracted a typical feminine pencil stub,—its business-end looking as though it had been gnawed by a vindictive rat,—and scribbled hastily on the back of a menu card:
"Mrs. McCabe, 205 West 118th Street. Top floor. Ring 3 times."
"I shall be there at seven," she told him. "You won't fail me?"
"Not if I'm still at liberty," he laughed.
And the waiter smiled at discretion, a far-away and unobtrusive smile that could by no possibility give offense; at the same time it was calculated to convey the impression that, in the opinion of one humble person, at least, Mr. Maitland was a merry wag.