“So my clerk informed me when I saw him a few minutes ago.” Kent helped her inside the limousine. “Won't you come to my office now?”
“But that will be taking you from Mr. Clymer,” remonstrated Mrs. Brewster. “Weren't you on the way to the bank?”
“I was,” admitted Kent. “But I can see Mr. Clymer later in the day.”
“And I'll be less occupied then,” added Clymer. “Go with Mrs. Brewster, Kent; good morning, madam,” and with a courtly bow Clymer withdrew.
Kent's office was only around the corner, and as Mrs. Brewster kept up a running fire of impersonal gossip, Kent had no opportunity to satisfy his curiosity regarding her reasons for wanting to interview him. As the limousine drew up at the curb in front of his office, a man darting down the steps of the building, caught sight of Kent and hurried to the car window.
“I was just trying to catch you at the bank, Mr. Kent,” he explained, and looking around Kent recognized Sylvester. “There's been three telephone calls for you in succession from Colonel McIntyre to hurry to his home.”
“Thanks, Sylvester.” Kent turned to Mrs. Brewster. “Would you mind driving me to the McIntyre? We can talk on the way there.”
Mrs. Brewster picked up the speaking tube. “Home, Harris,” she directed, as the chauffeur listened for the order.
Neither spoke as the big car started up the street but as they swung past old St. John's Church, Mrs. Brewster broke her silence.
“Mr. Kent,” she drew further back in her corner. “I claim a woman's privilege—to change my mind. Forget that I ever expressed a wish to consult you professionally, and remember, I am always glad to meet you as a friend.”