“Listen, Marjorie; if a girl loves a man she ought to be willing to trust him over a dreadful bungle until he could straighten things out and make good again—that’s true, isn’t it?”
“Billy Burgeman! What do you mean?”
“Just answer my question. If a girl loves a man she’ll trust him, won’t she?”
“I suppose so.”
“You know she would, dear. What would the man do if she didn’t?”
The voice sounded strained and unnatural in its intensity and appeal. Patsy rose, troubled in mind, and tiptoed to the only other door in the den.
“’Tis a grand situation for a play,” she remarked, dryly, “but ’tis a mortial poor one in real life, and I’m best out of it.” She turned the knob with eager fingers and pulled the door toward her. It opened on a dumbwaiter shaft, empty and impressive. Patsy’s expression would have scored a hit in farce comedy. Unfortunately there was no audience present to appreciate it here, and the prompter forgot to ring down the curtain just then, so that Patsy stood helpless, forced to go on hearing all that Marjorie and her leading man wished to improvise in the way of lines.
“... I told you, forged—”
Patsy was tempted to put her fingers in her ears to shut out the sound of his voice and what he was saying, but she knew even then she would go on hearing; his voice was too vibrant, too insistent, to be shut out.
“... my father’s name for ten thousand. I took the check to the bank myself, and cashed it; father’s vice-president.... Of course the cashier knew me.... I tell you I can’t explain—not now. I’ve got to get away and stay away until I’ve squared the thing and paid father back.”