“What can have taken Mr. Rochester out of town?” she asked. The question was not addressed to any one in particular, but Colonel McIntyre answered it, as he did most of the widow's remarks.
“Dry Washington,” he explained. “It isn't the first trip Philip has made to Baltimore since the 'dry' law has been in force, eh, Clymer?”
“No, and it won't be his last,” was the banker's response. “What's the matter, Miss McIntyre?” as Barbara pushed back her chair.
“I feel a little faint,” she stammered. “The air here is—is stifling. If you don't mind, father, I'll take the car and drive home.”
“I'll come with you,” announced Mrs. Brewster, rising hurriedly; and as she turned solicitously to aid Barbara she caught Colonel McIntyre's admiring glance and his whispered thanks.
Outside the cafe Clymer discovered that the McIntyre limousine was not to be found, and, cautioning Barbara and the widow to remain where they were, he went back into the cafe in search of Colonel McIntyre, who had stayed behind to pay his bill.
A sudden exodus from the cafe as other diners came out to get their cars, separated Barbara from Mrs. Brewster just as the former caught sight of her father's limousine coming around McPherson Square. Not waiting to see what had become of her companion, Barbara started up the sidewalk intent on catching their chauffeur's attention. As she stood by the curb, a figure brushed by her and a paper was deftly slipped inside her hand.
Barbara wheeled about abruptly. She stood alone, except for several elaborately dressed women and their companions some yards away who were indulging in noisy talk as they hurried along. At that moment the McIntyre limousine stopped at the curb and the chauffeur opened the door.
“Take me home, Harris,” she ordered. “And then come back for Mrs. Brewster and father. I don't feel well—hurry.”
“Very good, miss,” and touching his cap the chauffeur swung his car up Fifteenth Street.