On the top step, Brachey paused. At the end of the corridor, where a chair or two, a table, bookcase, and lamp made a pleasant little lounge, a young woman sat quietly reading. She looked up; sat very still, gazing straight at him out of a white face. It was Betty. His heart seemed to stop.
Then a man stood before him. A little, dusty blond man. They were clasping hands. He was ushered rather abruptly into a study. The door closed.
The little man said something twice. It proved to be, “I am Mr. Boatwright,” and he was looking down at the much-thumbed card; Brachey's own card.
Brachey was fighting to gather his wits. Why hadn't he spoken to Betty, or she to him? Would she wait there to see him? If not, how could he reach her?... He must reach her, of course. He knew now that through all his confusion of mind and spirit he had come straight to her.
4
The little man was nervous, Brachey observed; even jumpy. He hurried about, drawing down the window-shades. Then he sat at a desk and with twitching fingers rolled a pencil about. He cleared his throat.
“You've come in from the railroad?” he asked.... “Yes? Do you bring news?”
“No,” said Brachey coldly.
“What gossip have your boys picked up along the road, may I ask?”
Back and forth, back and forth, his fingers twitched the pencil. Bradley's eyes narrowly followed the movement. After a little, he replied: