The rouge on Polly’s cheeks showed up plainly against the dead whiteness of her skin.
“I fail to see what business it is of yours if I knew or did not know of Austin’s contemplated return,” she replied, and before Judith guessed her intention she had slipped under her arm and bolted through the boudoir into the hall, leaving Judith staring after her.
The thick carpet deadened Polly’s flying footsteps as she hurried to the den, a room set aside for Robert Hale’s exclusive use. It adjoined his bedroom, and there the scientist spent many hours going carefully over his manuscripts and statistical research work. It was in one sense a labor of love for, thanks to the timely death of a relative, he had inherited a large estate which brought in its train a handsome income; he was, therefore, not dependent upon a salaried position and could indulge his whims and vagaries. And these same whims and vagaries had, mingled with an unbridled temper, made the post of secretary to the eminent scientist no sinecure. Polly Davis had secured the position through Judith’s influence, and she had remained longer than the majority of her predecessors, a fact which had won sarcastic comments from Robert Hale and—nothing more.
Polly paused on reaching the middle of the den and stared at the man seated with his back to her, bending over Robert Hale’s flat-topped desk. With infinite care he went over paper after paper, and as he lifted his hands Polly saw that he was wearing rubber gloves. With the instinct which seems to warn of another’s presence, he partly turned in his chair and gazed at the motionless figure behind him. A constrained silence followed, which John Hale was the first to break.
“Why did you not go to Baltimore?” he asked.
Her reply was slow in coming.
“I have altered my plans,” she stated, and, crossing to her own desk, she dropped into the revolving chair standing before it.
John Hale watched her for an instant, and not a detail of her appearance escaped him. There was an ominous tightening of his lips, and he lowered his gaze that she might not read its telltale message. Without further comment he removed his gloves, rolled them into a ball and stuffed them in his pocket. In the lengthening silence Polly’s eyes strayed to a pile of papers and she swung the typewriter on its iron supporting-frame, which was attached to her desk, toward her.
“Pardon me if I go on with my work.” Her voice was cold and formal. Slowly John Hale rose to his feet, and the bigness of the man filled the small room. Polly looked only at her typewriter.
“I am sorry I detained you.” His voice matched hers in tone and quality.