"Mrs. Sheldon has gone too? And she didn't go with Marguerite? That is strange. There wasn't a death in the family or anything near relatives in New York perhaps? I believe they have relatives there, haven't they? Perhaps they telegraphed for Marguerite."
"No, it couldn't a been that, all the Sheldons and Hamptons in New York went to Europe a month ago—went for a year."
"Well, it's none of my business of course," said Whitney with a grave smile that ended with a sigh, "but what in sixty am I going to do about that committee? They'll be in my hair if I don't get those things for to-night, and they told me Marguerite had the list. She probably forgot to say anything to you about it, Mary, going in such a hurry. Suppose you go up and look around her room and see if you see anything that looks like a list, whether it has my name on it or not."
"Come on in, then," said Mary graciously, and opened the door wider.
Whitney stepped in and stood in the hall, his glance searching toward the open doorway where he had stood two nights before, talking to Mrs. Sheldon. Who was that other woman? Was she connected with this sudden exodus? He had liked her. She seemed a strong true friend. He remembered the twinkle in her eyes, though they had looked grave, even sorrowful as if she was full of sympathy.
He sighed again as he remembered how strange it was to have the family go off this way without telling him. Heretofore he had always been told of every change from day to day. His life had been so closely twined with theirs that they never even changed a piece of furniture from one room to another without asking him gaily how he liked it in its new place, always joyously consulting him about any action. When they were going away, it was always he who got their reservations, checked their baggage, and took them to the station in his car, that is, since he had been old enough to have a car. Before that he attended them in a hired taxi.
But now, the last few months, there had been growing a change. Mrs. Sheldon was just the same, but Marguerite had a certain reserve, as if he didn't matter any more. It was all since that night when the Farr girl brought that Keller fellow with her to their literary club, and introduced him to Marguerite. Whitney had heard him calling her "Daisy" the very first night; "Daisy," the name that belonged exclusively to her mother—and himself—up to that night!
After that, he studiously called her Marguerite. He wanted no name for his girl that he had to share with that man! He was a villain, that's what he was, a middle-aged man coming in and presuming to monopolize a girl almost young enough to be his daughter! What was he anyway, and what did they know about him? He meant to make it his business pretty soon to find out, if he persisted in coming around as he had been doing.
Then Mary's voice sailed down the stairway.
"Was it a list of flower seeds and bulbs, you meant, Mr. Nelson?"