“Well, Rondeau, some day I'll be boss of Laguna Grande and there'll be no more fighting,” she replied, and passed on down B Street to the office of the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company. Moira McTavish looked up as she entered.
“Where is he, dear?” Shirley asked. “I must see him.”
“In that office, Miss Shirley,” Moira replied, and pointed to the door. Shirley stepped to the door, knocked, and then entered. Bryce Cardigan, seated at his desk, looked up as she came in. His left arm was in a sling, and he looked harassed and dejected.
“Don't get up, Bryce,” she said as he attempted to rise. “I know you're quite exhausted. You look it.” She sat down. “I'm so sorry,” she said softly.
His dull glance brightened. “It doesn't amount to that, Shirley.” And he snapped his fingers. “It throbs a little and it's stiff and sore, so I carry it in the sling. That helps a little. What did you want to see me about?”
“I wanted to tell you,” said Shirley, “that—that last night's affair was not of my making.” He smiled compassionately. “I—I couldn't bear to have you think I'd break my word and tell him.”
“It never occurred to me that you had dealt me a hand from the bottom of the deck, Shirley. Please don't worry about it. Your uncle has had two private detectives watching Ogilvy and me.”
“Oh!” she breathed, much relieved. A ghost of the old bantering smile lighted her winsome features. “Well, then,” she challenged, “I suppose you don't hate me.”
“On the contrary, I love you,” he answered. “However, since you must have known this for some time past, I suppose it is superfluous to mention it. Moreover, I haven't the right—yet.”
She had cast her eyes down modestly. She raised them now and looked at him searchingly. “I suppose you'll acknowledge yourself whipped at last, Bryce?” she ventured.