Ben Riley touched his hat and a pleased smile stole over his freckled face. He had admired Miriam at a distance for several days, although she had been utterly oblivious of his existence. That she might be under surveillance never entered her head. The indefatigable Martha had complained to her of the presence about Abbott’s Lodge of a number of deputies, and Riley had been pointed out to her by Somers as one of them.
“The sheriff’s at his home,” Riley explained, then, as her face showed plainly her disappointment, he added, “Can I take a message to him? I’m on my way there now.”
With Miriam to think was to act. It was imperative that she see Trenholm.
“Can I drive over with you?” she asked, and her charming smile completed Riley’s conquest.
“Yes, Miss Ward,” he stammered, with gratifying emphasis, and opened the door of his roadster. “Hop in.”
They had gone half the distance to Upper Marlboro and were about to turn from the main road to the one leading to Trenholm’s bungalow, when they were passed by Mrs. Nash’s Rolls-Royce which continued down the main road at such a speed that Miriam had only a glimpse of Alexander Nash seated by the chauffeur. The fur collar of Pierre’s heavy chauffeur’s overcoat was turned up about his face and his most intimate friend would have failed to recognize him as he drove along, under Nash’s instructions, breaking the speed laws of Maryland.
Pablo, the Filipino, answered Miriam’s ring of the door bell at the bungalow with a promptness that suggested that he had observed Riley’s car when it turned into the driveway.
“Come inside, Mees,” he said with hospitable intent. “My master will return in one little moment. He is in de garage and I will go at once and tell him that you are here. It is cold, yes?” as the rising wind blew the daily papers off the hall table. He closed the door with alacrity and led the way into the library. “Sit down, Mees, and be comfortable.”
Miriam hardly noticed his departure. The long drive over had brought reflection in its train and she was regretting her hasty action. She glanced about the library, taking in, as Alan had done the night before, its suggestion of cultivation, its homelike atmosphere. Guy Trenholm’s personality permeated the room. She did not sit down, as Pablo had suggested, but remained by the table in deep thought, and Trenholm, about to enter the room, stopped in the doorway and studied her intently. The proud poise of her head, her becoming toque, her plain, but well-fitting coat, her vivid coloring, made more brilliant by her drive in the wind, all were a fitting complement to the setting in which she stood. Trenholm caught his breath and his heart beat more quickly, but his expression and voice conveyed no feeling beyond a courteous welcome as he stepped forward to greet her.
“Won’t you sit down?” he asked, pulling forward a chair. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting. Let me help you with your coat.”