“No, Helen, I forgot nothing—I never do forget anything,” he said, with sullen meaning. “Where’s Betty?”
“It’s a fair day and it’s eleven; of course she is out in the park,” replied Helen, smiling.
He smiled too, but in such a way that she sat forward in her chair with dilated eyes, into which Robert read a rising fear.
“Dear, what is it? What is wrong?”
“Wrong? Who said wrong? I didn’t,” he found himself saying, greatly to his disappointment, for suspicions are useless until graduated into—evidence; so he hastened to explain his errand; sorting over some papers at his desk meanwhile. All the time his mind was intent upon one thing only—the possession of that piece of paper lying near the reception-room door.
He walked toward the cabinet in the corner to fill his pockets with cigars; the paper was lying just behind him, and as he turned he would stoop and pick it up.
He heard a slight noise behind him, and, wheeling-swiftly, discovered Helen creeping toward the paper, her hand already outstretched. With one quick movement he snatched it from the floor, and forced himself to hold it aloft and laugh a little. He might have spared himself all that finesse, for she ran to him, clinging to his arm, laughing, coaxing, pouting, begging him to give it to her—unread!
“Rob, you’ll break my heart if you read that. Please not now—later perhaps—some day I will explain; please, dear!”
“If the contents of this paper are sufficiently serious to break your heart if I do read it, perhaps mine will be broken if I don’t. So, as a measure of self-preservation——” He put the piece of note paper into his pocket. His face was white, his pulse was galloping like mad, and yet he managed a rather ghastly smile into her face, upraised and pleading.
“Face of a Botticello angel!” he thought, and steeled his heart against her.