"Dearie!" he whispered tenderly into the telephone, "good night!"--and abruptly hung up.
"You don't need much prompting!" exclaimed Rockwell, rising. "Well, she didn't lie to me."
"No," Merriam assented confusedly. Whatever else he had anticipated from Norman's mistress, the disreputable manicurist, it had not been that note of sincere affection or that he himself would be for an instant carried off his feet. As he automatically followed Rockwell, who made for the sitting room, he was unwillingly conscious of a new charity for George Norman.
"He's not there," Rockwell reported. "And he hasn't been."
"Sure?" Aunt Mary looked at Merriam.
Our hero nodded. He could not speak. And he dared not look at Mollie June, of whose bright eyes fixed on his face he was nevertheless acutely aware.
In a moment, however, it was of Aunt Mary's gaze that he was sensible. She seemed to read him through. He thought, ridiculously, that that momentary telephonic tenderness could not be hid from her.
But when she spoke her question both relieved and startled him.
"At what hour in the morning does your train go?"
"It goes to-night. At 2:00 A.M."