“Oh, I don’t refuse,” cried Corole.
Then they both saw me.
Dr. Hajek’s dark face flushed a still deeper, painful red. By an effort, apparently of will, he relaxed his hands, reached for a cap that lay on the table, muttered something under his breath, and wheeled toward the door. Corole recovered her self-possession more easily; she raised her eyebrows and shrugged as if in amusement. She wore an amazing Chinese coat, stiffly embroidered in gold and green, dancing pumps with rhinestone heels and shabby toes, and no stockings!
“Good-morning,” she said with shameless calm.
I think O’Leary must have met Dr. Hajek in the hall, for I heard his voice before he entered the study. At the door he stopped.
“You, too,” said Corole, losing her amused smile.
“May I come in, Miss Letheny?” O’Leary asked. He looked as fresh and well groomed as if he had had a long night’s sleep. “I rang the bell but no one answered.”
Corole pulled her bizarre coat tighter about her.
“Huldah decided she no longer liked it here,” she said. “She left last night—rather abruptly. Yes, do come in, Mr. O’Leary.”
There followed an hour I shall not soon forget. I had never seen Lance O’Leary so mercilessly intent. I was both fascinated and awed to note the way he cut through Corole’s pretences and poses, her feline evasions and her suave smiles, and by sheer strength of will forced her to give to his inquiries answers that were direct if they were not entirely truthful.