Their eyes met; it was perfectly clear to Wingfield that Walsh had asked Mrs. Craighill to drive with him merely to occupy her time and to impart to her a sense, thus delicately conveyed, of his espionage.
“She’s not stupid; she knew why I asked her to go,” said Walsh, chewing his bit of lemon peel. “It made her hot. I was afraid for a minute that she would blow up; but she didn’t dare. She’s afraid of me.”
Wingfield was trying a new medicated biscuit, which the Club kept for his benefit, and Walsh took one and ate it slowly. He seemed unusually well pleased with himself.
“What do you think Wayne will do to us?” asked Wingfield.
“Nothing; he’ll not say a word. The joke’s on him, and when he takes a second thought he’ll be much obliged to us.”
“It was rather raw—our doing it. That Morley girl is pretty, isn’t she—something really noble about her?”
“Um! Too bad the art microbe’s in her system. She’s too good for that,” and having disposed of Miss Morley’s ambitions, Walsh rose and shook the trousers down on his fat legs and declared that it was time to go to bed. Wingfield lingered at the table speculating, over a fresh bottle of koumiss, as to the means by which Walsh had learned that Mrs. Craighill had abandoned the Boston trip.
Above, in his own room, Walsh re-read the telegram which had brought this information, re-read it several times, in fact, and then tore it into many pieces which he flung into his grate fire.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE END OF A SLEIGH-RIDE
IT PLEASED Mrs. Craighill to breakfast in her sitting room the following morning. Wayne, finding himself deserted, drank his coffee alone in the dining room, with the newspapers for company. His father’s chauffeur sent word to the house that Joe was sick and Wayne ordered a doctor summoned before going to his office.