CHAPTER XIII
THE THREAT
On that same afternoon Beatrice sat in the library gazing with troubled eyes at a letter lying open in her lap. Suddenly she tore it into shreds and flung the pieces into the open fire.
“How dare he?” she exclaimed aloud.
“Beg pardon, Miss Beatrice,” said Wilkins, patiently. He had already addressed her three times.
“What is it?” asked Beatrice, for the first time aware of his presence.
“Detective Hardy is at the telephone, miss. He wishes to know if you can see him this afternoon.”
“No, I cannot.” She shivered slightly. “Tell him, Wilkins, that I am lying down, but that I will see him to-morrow about this time. I am not at home to anyone to-day.”
“Very good, miss.”
Just as Wilkins hung up the telephone receiver, the front bell rang so loudly that in the library Beatrice paused in her rapid pacing back and forth to listen. She heard voices raised in a heated altercation. “Some more reporters,” she thought, shrugging her shoulders nervously. She threw herself on the lounge and took up her embroidery.
“Well, here I am,” said a heavy bass voice from the doorway. Beatrice glanced up in surprise, and saw Mrs. Curtis, wife of the Secretary of War, standing on the threshold. Wilkins’ flushed and unhappy countenance could be seen over her shoulder. It was not often that he was out-maneuvered as a watch-dog. “Your servant said you were out, but I knew he was lying, so just walked right by him. I simply had to see you, Beatrice,” kissing her affectionately.