"Won't somebody give me a drink? Please, please give me a drink! I'm
choked!"
"Nell will be up directly," she answered over her shoulder. There was no
time to lose, for the day was coming fast.
She lifted her torn and trailing flounce and pulled her cloak about her
bare shoulders as she opened the street door. The air felt good upon her
hot forehead and she breathed deep of it. The East was pink now, but the
town was still as silent as the grave save for the sound of escaping
steam from the early morning train. Happening to glance toward the
station, something in the appearance of a man carrying a suitcase across
the cinders attracted her attention and caused her to slacken her pace.
It looked like Ogden Van Lennop. It _was_ Ogden Van Lennop. He was
leaving! What did it mean? Her air-castles collapsed with a thud which
left her limp.
She kept on toward the hotel, but her step lagged. What did she care who
saw her now? Surely, she reassured herself, he was not leaving for
good--like this. It was certainly strange.
Entering the hotel through the unlocked office door she found the night
lamp still burning and Terriberry was nowhere about. That was curious,
for he was always up when any of his guests were leaving on the early
train.
Van Lennop's decision must have been sudden. What could be the
explanation?
There was a letter propped against the lamp on a table behind the office
desk and, as she surmised, it was addressed to Mr. Terriberry in Van
Lennop's handwriting. Looking closer she saw the end of a second
envelope behind the first. To whom could he have written? In some
respects Dr. Harpe had the curiosity of a servant and it now prompted
her to walk behind the desk and gratify it.
"Miss Essie Tisdale" was the address on the second envelope. Instantly
her face changed and the swift, jealous rage of the evening before swept
over her again.
She ground her teeth together as she regarded the letter with malice
glittering in her heavy eyes. He was writing to her, then, the little
upstart, that infernal little biscuit-shooter!
Shorty, the cook, was rattling the kitchen range. She listened a moment.
There was no other sound. She thrust the letter quickly beneath the line
of her low-cut bodice and tiptoed up the stairs with slinking, feline
stealth.