“I’ve come,” he said, as the soft hand drew itself away from his, “to return a book. Is this the right place?”
“Yes,” she replied brightly.
“Thank you. I don’t know very much about libraries; I always avoid them as much as possible as being rather too exciting.” He took a small book from the pocket of his coat and laid it on the counter. “I’m afraid there’s a good deal to pay on it. It’s been out quite a while.”
A tinge of color came into her cheeks as she took the volume. It was a copy of “Love Sonnets from the Portuguese.”
“Oh, I’ll let you off,” she answered gayly. “We sometimes remit the fines when the excuse is good.”
“Thank you. My excuse is excellent. I only yesterday discovered the identity of the loaner.”
“Only yesterday?” she asked carelessly, but with quickening heart.
“To be exact, at about eight o’clock last evening.” He dropped his voice and leaned a little further across the barrier. “You see, Miss Hoyt, you fooled me very nicely.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Parmley, you fooled yourself. I told you—at least, I never said I was Laura Devereux.”
“No, you didn’t, but—I wonder why I was so certain you were! If I hadn’t been——”