“You ought to know that I believe nothing you say,—not a word!” But in her heart she felt a foreboding that this might be true.
“You should ask your uncle; or your Aunt Julia. Possibly we three are the only people that remember. I should like to have you quite sure about it, now that you have decided not to marry the son,”—and he laughed with ugly glee.
The front door-bell rang out harshly, and the old man sprang up:
“You are not at home; you must see no one.”
Polly’s step was heard in the back hall.
“Never mind, Polly. I’ll answer the door,” said Zelda. The sight of any other face than that of her father would be a relief; but it was nine o’clock, an hour at which no one ever called. She expected nothing more than a brief parley with a messenger boy.
“Pardon me, Miss Dameron—”
Leighton stood on the step with his hat in his hand. He had been wandering about the streets since he left her, afraid to return to report to Rodney Merriam. He had passed the Dameron house a dozen times, held to the neighborhood by a feeling that Zelda might need his protection; and he finally stopped and rang in a tumult of hope that he might see her again and reassure himself of her safety. As he stepped into the hall, he saw Ezra Dameron peering at him from the living-room door.
“Good evening, Mr. Dameron,” said Leighton. The old man turned back to the table and his papers without reply; but he listened intently.
“I was passing,” said Leighton, truthfully, “and I remembered a message that Mrs. Copeland gave me for you this afternoon, and I’m sorry to say I forgot about it until now.”