It was a common habit of Purple Sanderson to call attention at night to the resemblance of the den to some little ward in a hospital. Upon this night, when Sanderson and Grief were buried in slumber, Pennoyer moved restlessly. "Wrink!" he called softly into the darkness in the direction of the divan which was secretly a coal-box.
"What?" said Wrinkles in a surly voice. His mind had evidently been caught at the threshold of sleep.
"Do you think Florinda cares much for Billie Hawker?"
Wrinkles fretted through some oaths. "How in thunder do I know?" The divan creaked as he turned his face to the wall.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The harmony of summer sunlight on leaf and blade of green was not known to the two windows, which looked forth at an obviously endless building of brownstone about which there was the poetry of a prison. Inside, great folds of lace swept down in orderly cascades, as water trained to fall mathematically. The colossal chandelier, gleaming like a Siamese headdress, caught the subtle flashes from unknown places.
Hawker heard a step and the soft swishing of a woman's dress. He turned toward the door swiftly, with a certain dramatic impulsiveness. But when she entered the room he said, "How delighted I am to see you again!"
She had said, "Why, Mr. Hawker, it was so charming in you to come!"