Whereupon Sally behaved in a most peculiar and reprehensible manner. At the sound of the voice she had stiffened; but now she cast herself at the man and seized his arm with both her hands.
"Fox, Fox," she said, with a quiver in her voice, for she was very near to crying. "I'm glad. You are an old comfort. You don't know how lonely it was, waiting by myself. I thought I could stand it, but I don't know whether I could have held out much longer. The street was getting on my nerves."
"I know, Sally," he replied. "I was afraid it would. And now what is the prospect? Is Charlie likely to come soon? And shall we go to your hotel or wait?"
"I must wait. But—but, Fox, it would provoke Jane and Charlie, too, to find you here."
Fox laughed. "Then I will vanish at the first sign of them. But I should really like to know how your enterprise comes out. Do you mind telling me, Sally? And how shall we manage it without telling your mother? I suppose she doesn't know the purpose of your coming."
"Not from me, although she may guess. I'll come out, in a day or two, to call on you, sir. Shall you feel honored?"
"You know I shall, Sally. But how will you account for your call?"
"I shall come to collect the rent," returned Sally promptly, "if any excuse is necessary. Be sure that you have it ready. And I shall give you a faithful account of all that has transpired." She had Fox's arm and she gave it a little squeeze. It was a very little squeeze and very brief, but it made his heart jump. "It was lucky for me that you—" And then she stopped short, realizing that Fox would not have happened to be in that street, leading to nowhere, at that time.
"Don't you know," he asked simply, with a laugh of content, "that I always keep track of you? Did you think that you could come to such a place as this without my being somewhere about?"
Sally changed the subject quickly. It was an unspeakable comfort to her to know—but Fox must not pursue that subject now. Fox had no intention of pursuing that subject; and they walked slowly to and fro over what had been Sally's beat, talking of anything or of nothing. Sally was content; and again she forgot Charlie and Jane and her errand, and she became almost gay. Those sombre old houses echoed quiet laughter, of a kind that they had not heard for goodness knows how many years, and low voices. Some more men came, singly, or in groups of two or three, and looked at them with curiosity. Sally hardly saw them. And the last group passed into the house and up the stairs and into the room where the table stood before the front windows and they stopped short at the sound of angry voices.