Norah was at the door when he presented it. She was genuinely affected by the gift. Perhaps her thanks were even warmer when one of her friends picked up the sales slip which had fluttered to the ground and read aloud the price. “I’m tired of that black bag,” George complained.
“Norah’s never going to carry that when she’s got this,” one of the other women cried. “It matches her gown exactly.”
“I took care of that,” George said complacently. “I told the saleswoman to get me the best she had but it must be gentian blue.”
There seemed a momentary hesitation before the black bag was discarded. To cling to it at such a moment would be to court suspicion. This was Trent’s strategy. Her manner was not lost upon one of the others, a character woman named Richards.
“Why, George,” she laughed, “I believe a former lover gave Norah that bag and she hates to part with it. I was in a picture once where the heroine carried the ashes of her first sweetheart around with her. I’d look into it if I was you.”
Nonchalantly Norah emptied the contents of the black bag into the new one. Then she pitched the old one onto a chair.
“Now for the eats,” she said cheerily.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE SECRET OF THE BLACK BAG
THE dinner was a wearisome affair to Trent. His companions were vulgar, their conversation tedious and the flattery they offered him nauseous. It was exactly half-past nine when a waiter came to his side and told him there was a long distance call for him from Denver. Apologizing he left the table.
“His brother is a mining man out in Colorado,” Weiller informed the company. “They’re a rich bunch, the Chicago Maltbys.”