“Seen Rand lately?” he asked casually as he got up to go.
“A number of times.” She had seen him only too frequently from the far side of the footlights. “Have you?”
[56]
] “No. He’s busy. Getting ready to go to Arizona. But of course you know about that.”
“Y—yes. Has he told you when he leaves?”
“Tuesday of next week. May be gone a year. Don’t know why.”
She turned her back to the light so that her face was blurred and misty and he could not read its expression. “Do you—do you think he looks quite well?” she prompted, eager for some news, any news of him.
“Well, it struck me he looked a bit seedy last time I saw him—not just up to the mark, that is. Probably spring fever. How does he impress you?”
“I—I hadn’t noticed any change.”
When he had gone, she picked up the calendar on her desk and stared at the day and date. Friday! By this time next week, a stretch of continent would rush between her and Hubert Randolph. She shrugged her shoulders with a short laugh. What mattered miles when worlds stretched between them now!
She went into her bedroom, locked the door. Lizzie Parsons leaned close to her mirror, stared into it. The white face and black-rimmed eyes of Lisa Parsinova stared back. A frenzy seized her. She caught hold of the first object her hand touched—a hair brush—and flung it full force at the reflected face. The glass splintered. Then she stepped back in trembling terror. Good heavens! Was she actually becoming that Russian fiend?