"Come," he said, "is it Berry Broughton, or Larry Pendexter, or Montgomery?" Her father rattled on without giving her a chance to answer, the girl's face growing more and more scarlet as he proceeded.
"It must be Eliot Beekman or Tommy Cadwalader," he declared, searching her face. But still Leslie made no answer, though there was the same embarrassed flush upon her countenance.
"Well, can't you tell me who it is?" he questioned impatiently.
"I don't know," she protested, "really, I do not."
"But I've got to know," persisted her father.
But whether she could not or would not tell him, his efforts were unsuccessful, for she merely fled in a panic from the room. So that it was in a voice whose tone was one of defeat that he called out:
"You can come now, Colonel!"
From the heavy curtains Colonel Morehead emerged—a grim figure lying in ambush, he seemed, as he asked:
"Well! who's the lucky man?"
"Blamed if I could find out."