Her head went up. “Then I think there is nothing more to be said.”
The young man flushed, but his voice was steady as he returned:
“I disagree with you. And I beg you to cut short your visit here, and return to your home at once.”
In spite of herself the girl was shaken by his persistence. “I can’t do that,” she said uneasily. And added, with a flash of anger, “I think you had better leave this house.”
“If I leave this house now I may never have any chance to see you again.”
The girl regarded him with level, non-committal eyes.
“And I have every intention of seeing you again—and—again—and again. Give me a chance; a moment.”
Average Jones’ mind was of the emergency type. It summoned to its aid, without effort of cerebration on the part of its owner, whatever was most needed at the moment. Now it came to his rescue with the memory of judge Ackroyd’s encounter with the drug clerk, as mentioned by Bertram. There was a strangely hopeful suggestion of some link between a drug-store quarrel and the arrival of a million-dollar dog, “better dead” in the hopes of his host.
“Miss Graham; I’ve gone rather far, I’ll admit,” said Jones; “but, if you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt, I think I can show you some basis to work on. If I can produce something tangible, may I come back here this afternoon? I’ll promise not to come unless I have good reason.”
“Very well,” conceded Miss Graham reluctantly, “it’s a most unusual thing. But I’ll agree to that.”