Lucinda nodded stiffly and walked on. She did not speak to him, but to Sylvia. “He is staying at the hotel. He writes for a New York paper,” she informed Sylvia, distinctly.
The young man laughed. “And Miss Hart is going to write for it, too,” he said, pleasantly and insinuatingly. “She is going to write an article upon how it feels to be suspected of a crime when one is innocent, and it will be the leading feature in next Sunday's paper. She is to have her picture appear with it, too, and photographs of her famous hotel and the room in which the murder was said to have been committed, aren't you, Miss Hart?”
“Yes,” replied Lucinda, with stolidity.
Sylvia stared with amazement. “Why, Lucinda!” she gasped.
“When I find out folks won't take no, I give 'em yes,” said Lucinda, grimly.
“I knew I could finally persuade Miss Hart,” said the young man, affably. He was really very much of a gentleman. He touched his hat, striking into a pleasant by-path across a field to a wood beyond.
“He's crazy over the country,” remarked Lucinda; and then she was accosted again, by another gentleman. This time he was older and stouter, and somewhat tired in his aspect, but every whit as genially persuasive.
“He writes for a New York paper,” said Lucinda to Sylvia, in exactly the same tone which she had used previously. “He wants me to write a piece for his paper on my first twenty-four hours under suspicion of crime.”
“And you are going to write it, aren't you, Miss Hart?” asked the gentleman.
“Yes,” replied Lucinda, with alacrity.