She gave a single stretch of her cramped muscles as she rose. "I know you—you're Betty Sheridan's brother—thanks," she said briskly. "What time is it?"
Pudge drew out his most esteemed possession, a watch which kept perfect time—except when it refused to keep any time at all.
"Three o'clock," he announced.
"Then our last demonstration is under way, and when I tell my story—" E. Eliot interrupted herself. "Come on—let's catch the trolley!"
With Pudge panting after her, she hurried downstairs, unbolted the door, and, running lightly on the balls of her feet, sped in the direction of the street car line.
CHAPTER XIV. BY LEROY SCOTT
In the meantime, concern and suspense and irruptive wrath had their chief abode in the inner room of Remington and Evans. George had received a request, through Penny Evans, from the chief of police to remain in his office, where he could be reached instantly if information concerning Geneviève were received, and where his help could instantly be secured were it required; and Penny had enlarged that request to the magnitude of a command and had stood by to see that it was obeyed, and himself to give assistance.
George had recognized the sense of the order, but he rebelled at the enforced inactivity. Where was Geneviève?—why wasn't he out doing something for her? He strode about the office, fuming, sick with the suspense and inaction of his rôle.
But Geneviève was not his unbroken concern. He was still afire with the high resentment which a few hours earlier had made him go striding into the office of the Sentinel. Fragments of his statement to the editor leaped into his mind; and as he strode up and down he repeated phrases silently, but with fierce emphasis of the soul.