It happened at the moment that there was no one in the house but Miranda and his mother. As he entered, he heard his mother’s voice in the kitchen.
“Miranda, get me those pitted cherries. I’m going to make a pie for dinner. Leigh loves cherry pie!”
He paused with his hand on the banister, thrilled with that poignant moment. Unknown to Mrs. Carter, her son was about to act a man’s great part, to avenge the honor of the family, and she—oh, grotesque thought—she was making cherry pie for him!
But he could not wait even for such thoughts as these. He ran up-stairs and into his father’s room. In the upper draw of the old mahogany highboy was a pistol. Mr. Carter kept it loaded as a precaution against mythical burglars. Leigh found it, thrust it in his pocket, and walked slowly down the hall.
Fanchon’s door was open. She had gone out, but she had left the room in sweet confusion. He caught sight of the trailing silk and chiffon of her tea-gown—one of the family amazements—lying across the bed. On a chair hung her riding-jacket, left to dry. There was an elusive fragrance of violets, the same fragrance that always hung about her person. Evidently she had forgotten her headache, or she had gone out to walk it off.
Very reverently Leigh laid the chemist’s package on a chair near the door. Then he saw a small glove lying on the floor. He picked it up, kissed it solemnly, and thrust it into his pocket. The illusion was complete—he bore his lady’s glove.
Aristide Corwin was alone in his room at the inn. It happened that his open windows commanded a clear view of Mr. Carter’s office opposite, and of the sign over the door—“Johnson Carter, Insurance and Loans.” Corwin had been staring at it moodily. He hated it for some reason.
Not that he thought much of the Carters. His business was with Fanchon, not with William Carter. But he hated that office, and he hated the whole tribe, at the moment, because Fanchon had outwitted him. She had made a fool of him. He had had his revenge, he was making the town ring with his talk, but he was not even with her yet—not yet! His eyes kindled fiercely at the thought of her. He had been drinking. Two bottles still stood on his table, and his glass was full.
He was a man who had been handsome in his first youth, but his face had coarsened and his hard eyes lowered. He rose, stripped off his coat, and sat down again in his shirt-sleeves, his collar unbuttoned from his big throat. He was hot, but he kept on drinking. It was late now, near supper-time, and there came a knock at his door.