When I turned about to go into my car, I found Madge standing on the platform of 218 waving a handkerchief. I paid no attention to her, and started up my steps.
“Mr. Gordon,” she said,—and when I looked at her I saw that she was flushing,—“what is the matter?”
I suppose most fellows would have found some excuse, but for the life of me I couldn’t. All I was able to say was,—
“I would rather not say, Miss Cullen.”
“How unfair you are!” she cried. “You—without the slightest reason you suddenly go out of your way to ill-treat—insult me, and yet will not tell me the cause.”
That made me angry. “Cause?” I cried. “As if you didn’t know of a cause! What you don’t know is that I overheard your conversation with Lord Ralles night before last.”
“My conversation with Lord Ralles?” exclaimed Madge, in a bewildered way.
“Yes,” I said bitterly, “keep up the acting. The practice is good, even if it deceives no one.”
“I don’t understand a word you are saying,” she retorted, getting angry in turn. “You speak as if I had done wrong,—as if—I don’t know what; and I have a right to know to what you allude.”
“I don’t see how I can be any clearer,” I muttered. “I was under the station platform, hiding from the cowboys, while you and Lord Ralles were walking. I didn’t want to be a listener, but I heard a good deal of what you said.”