“Will you write me how you are getting along?” asked Carley, offering her hand.
“Yes.”
Carley moved with him out into the hall and to the door. There was a question she wanted to ask, but found it strangely difficult of utterance. At the door Burton fixed a rather penetrating gaze upon her.
“You didn’t ask me about Rust,” he said.
“No, I—I didn’t think of him—until now, in fact,” Carley lied.
“Of course then you couldn’t have heard about him. I was wondering.”
“I have heard nothing.”
“It was Rust who told me to come to you,” said Burton. “We were talking one day, and he—well, he thought you were true blue. He said he knew you’d trust me and lend me money. I couldn’t have asked you but for him.”
“True blue! He believed that. I’m glad.... Has he spoken of me to you since I was last at the hospital?”
“Hardly,” replied Burton, with the straight, strange glance on her again.