“And why should she?” inquired Dr. Armstrong.
“’Cause she’s got de dough, an Ise heard de nurse loidies talkin’ ’bout youse, an’ dey said dat youse wuz poor.”
It was the doctor’s turn to colour, and flush he did.
“Swot and I will both be very grateful, Dr. Armstrong, if you will get us another of the Old Sleuth books,” spoke up Miss Durant, hastily.
“Won’t youse guv ’im de price?” reiterated the urchin.
“Then we’ll expect it to-morrow morning,” went on the girl; and for the first time in days she held out her hand to Dr. Armstrong, “And thank you in advance for your kindness. Good-morning.”
“Rats!” she heard, as she walked away. “I didn’t tink she’d do de grand sneak like dat, doc, jus’ ’cause I tried to touch her for de cash.”
Constance slowed one step, then resumed her former pace. “He surely— Of course he’ll understand why I hurried away,” she murmured.
Blind as he might be, Dr. Armstrong was not blind to the geniality of Miss Durant’s greeting the next morning, or the warmth of her thanks for the cheap-looking dime novel. She chatted pleasantly with him some moments before beginning on the new tale; and even when she at last opened the book, there was a subtle difference in the way she did it that made it include instead of exclude him from a share in the reading. And this was equally true of the succeeding days.
The new doings of Old Sleuth did not achieve the success that the previous ones had. The invalid suddenly developed both restlessness and inattention, with such a tendency to frequent interruptions as to make reading well-nigh impossible.