“I am afraid not, as she is with my cousin, Miss Porter, who is ill in bed.” Wyndham pushed his chair aside. “I will go and ask Miss Deane what she knows about the Treasury bill.”
“Good.”
“I’ll be back in a second.” Wyndham hastened to the door and, not waiting for a response, hurried upstairs and went at once to his aunt’s boudoir. To his delight he found Dorothy sitting there alone.
“Hugh!” Dorothy sprang to her feet. “You have news?” studying his face. “What is it, dear?”
“Nothing alarming,” taking her hand in a firm, reassuring clasp. “You recall giving me a ten-dollar bank bill to pay for the visiting-cards I ordered at Brentano’s for Vera—”
“Yes, perfectly,” she said. “What of it?”
“Where did you get the money?”
“From Vera. Why?” Her surprise growing at the continued questioning.
Mrs. Porter’s doorknob rattled as a hand grasped it on the other side of the closed door, and Wyndham retreated into the hall.
“Tell you later,” he called, closing the door, but before doing so he caught the sound of Mrs. Porter’s voice raised in querulous questioning.