Then he read Sue's letter; and pictures of her arose. It began to appear to him that Sue had inspired him as Grace never had. Perhaps it was Sue's youth. Grace, in her way, was as honest as Sue, but she was not so young. And the creative artist must have youth, too!
The letter was brief.
“Could you, by any chance, run back to New York Saturday—have tea with me? I want you here. Come about four.”
But it fired his imagination. It was like Sue to reach out to him in that abrupt way, explaining nothing.
Then he settled down in his room, a glow in his heart, to find out just what Grace and Neuerman had done, between! them, to The Truffler.
At noon that day a white Peter, lips trembling, very still and stiff, knocked at Miss Derring's door.
She opened it, just dressed for luncheon.
“Oh,” she cried—“Peter!”
“Here,” said he frigidly, “is the manuscript of your play.”
Her eyes, very wide, searched his face.