With an apprehensive glance along the street she crossed to his door and rang the bell. She waited nervously for his coming, and, with a sudden impulse, pulled her vanity-case from her bag and dabbed a film of powder over the mark on her arm. Then his ponderous footsteps sounded and the door opened.
"Hello," he said genially. "These late evening visits of yours are becoming quite customary—and see if I care!"
"May I come in a while?" asked Pat meekly.
"Have I ever turned you away?" He followed her into the library, pushed a chair forward for her, and dropped quickly into his own with an air of having snatched it from her just in time.
"I didn't want your old arm-chair," she remarked, occupying the other.
"And what's the trouble tonight?" he queried.
"I—well, I was just nervous. I didn't want to stay in the house alone."
"You?" His tone was skeptical. "You were nervous? That hardly sounds reasonable, coming from an independent little spit-fire like you."
"I was, though. I was scared."
"And of what—or whom?"