Evelyn’s chauffeur, finding that she and La Montagne were too absorbed in each other to pay attention to him, had wandered over to the hangar, keeping a watchful eye on his car. He had overheard the dispatch of the orderly for La Montagne, and had promptly hurried back to the car, reaching it just as the Frenchman strode away.
“Where to, Miss?” he asked. Evelyn, absorbed in watching La Montagne, actually jumped as his harsh voice recalled her attention. She gazed at him blankly for a moment.
“To Woodward and Lothrop’s,” she directed, and added as he prepared to slip into the driver’s seat, “Haven’t I seen you before?”
“Yes, Miss.” He half turned, his freckles and red hair showing distinctly in the glare of the sunlight. “I took you home from the Union Station on Tuesday morning.”
“Oh, surely, I remember now,” and Evelyn settled back in the car.
She was some time in doing her numerous errands and it was two hours before the taxi-cab swung into her street and stopped with such abruptness in front of her door that her many packages which partly filled the seat by her side were deposited on the floor of the car. With the aid of the apologetic chauffeur she was engaged in picking them up when a voice behind her caused her to turn around.
“Let me help,” exclaimed Dan Maynard, and reaching past her he retrieved a skein of worsted which eluded her grasp. “Your mother was quite worried when you didn’t return for luncheon. In fact,” and his charming smile was contagious, “I believe I stopped her from sending the town crier after you.”
“And who is he?” asked Evelyn laughing.
“Burnham, perhaps.” Maynard laughed also. “Let me pay the man, your hands are full,” as she fumbled for her purse.
“No, no,” she protested, but Maynard, paying no attention, turned back to question the chauffeur and before Evelyn could reach them Maynard handed the man a bank note.