“Because, by Heavens!” cried the badgered Remsen, “I don’t know any Miss Cole.”
“Think again,” adjured Darcy. “There was a blowy, windy day on a Fifth Avenue coach when you got off to help a woman with a suitcase—”
“Full of burglar’s tools or solid gold ingots, I don’t know which. Never thought a suitcase could weigh so much!”
“Poor Mr. Remsen!” laughed the girl, but her eyes were soft as she turned them to him. “You must have been terribly bored. But you were game. You didn’t see me on the coach?”
“I didn’t notice any one but the two working-girls with the suitcase. Do you think I could have seen you and forgotten you?”
“Be careful! You’re only making it worse. One of the two working-girls called after you to thank you, didn’t she?”
Remsen fell suddenly thoughtful. “Now I recall, the voice did seem familiar. But—surely—”
“Perhaps this will help.” She hummed softly a passage of the lulling, lilting song which she had heard from his lips on that memorable day of her great resolve.
“Wait!” he cried. “I’m getting it! Gloria Greene’s studio. A girl asleep on the divan, while I was playing. She corrected a change of chord for me. But—you! Never tell me that was you!”
“Darcy Cole, at your service.”