She answered him with a long glance that visibly made his head reel.
This was followed by a flash of intelligence in Jack's direction,
signifying: "This is the sort of thing I'm obliged to hand out to them."
"Lord! But she's a conscienceless lovely devil!" thought Jack grimly.
"I'd like to teach her a lesson. Anyhow, I'm hanged if I'm going to
let her make me a party to her game with Bobo."
So he made a careless excuse and left them. Bobo did not mind, of
course, but an ugly shadow flitted over Miss Culbreth's fair
countenance.
Jack returned to the lower floor, where he could smoke and watch the
crowd undisturbed. He had not been there long before Bobo came
downstairs considerably agitated.
"Have you seen her?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Miriam--Miss Culbreth," he said, blushing. "We started downstairs to
the refreshment room together, but I lost her somehow in the crowd.
Can't find her anywhere."
"She will find herself when she wishes to, I expect," said Jack calmly.
"Maybe she's gone on in," said Bobo hopefully. He disappeared into the
refreshment room.
As soon as he had gone a footman who had been standing near approached
Jack. "Mr. Robinson?" he asked.
Jack nodded.
"Miss Culbreth sent me for you, sir. Will you please come with me."
It was a point of pride with Jack never to be surprised at anything.
With a nod, he followed the man. They avoided the stairs, and were
raised to the upper regions in a tiny elevator concealed behind the
wainscoting. The young lady was found in still another part of the
house, a dainty silk-paneled room at the back, and she was alone there
with a tempting supper--spread for two. The footman evaporated.
"I was so hungry," she said, waving him to the seat opposite, "and I
couldn't face the crowd downstairs. They paw one so! So I had it
brought up here, and sent for you to keep me company."
"You make pretty free in the house," thought Jack.
"I live here," she said, as if she had read his thought. "Mrs. Cleaver
is my cousin. Do you mind my sending for you?" she said meltingly.
"Mind!" said Jack. "I most certainly do! I shall return at once."
And he sat down.
She laughed. "I like you, you're so unexpected. A little while ago
you piqued my curiosity so, I couldn't rest without seeing you again."
This was said with the wide-eyed seeming simplicity that was her trump
suit. "You so plainly did not like me! And most people do!" This
with an adorable, deprecating shrug.
"I did like you!" Jack protested with an inscrutable face. "I liked
you so much, I felt I had to be very, very careful!"
"Don't be careful!" she murmured, turning on the full fire of those
terrible eyes. "I despise careful men!"
Jack kept a prudent hold on himself. "I have no choice," he said
calmly. "How long would I hold my job if I was not--well, careful?"
"You're afraid!" she said with provoking scorn.
He shrugged.
"Is it true he has a hundred million?" she asked idly.
"You can't prove it by me. I'm only his secretary."
"But you do everything for him. He depends on you absolutely. Anybody
can see that."
Jack declined to be drawn into a discussion of Bobo.
"How long have you known him?" she asked.
"Oh, quite a while," he said vaguely. He could not tell what mythical
details of their past Bobo might have given her.
"What a responsibility it will be on you! Looking after all that money
and everything."
"Oh, the executor and the lawyer will take care of all that."
"Who is his lawyer?"
"_What does she want to know that for?_" thought Jack. She had
overdone the carelessness with which she asked it. He gave her a
fictitious name, and looked at her with a new interest. At the moment
her profile was turned towards him, and the way the light fell on it
certain lines of weariness were shown up. She looked older than she
had seemed at first.
Jack thought: "Mr. Gyde said that, too, of the stenographer who worked
for him. This is more than a coincidence. Wouldn't it be amazing
if----!"
"What do you think of me?" she asked with a direct challenge. "I can
see that you're revolving me in your head all the time."
"Well, you do make a man dizzy," he parried.
"No, I'm serious. How would you describe me if you had to?"
"Honest, I don't know."
"Come now, you're a great reader of character. You're always studying
people, and trying to figure them out to yourself."
"Am I?" said Jack. He had a sudden idea. "They say there's more
character in people's hands than in anything else," he said carelessly.
"Read mine," she said, extending a white and tapering member. It was
the left hand she offered.
"It must always be the right hand."
She gave it him.
"I'll read character until the cows come home if you'll let me hold it."
"Go on. And no nonsense."
"Have you ever operated a typewriter?" he asked slyly.
"No. Why do you ask?" she asked sharply.
"Oh, nothing. This hand looks to be capable of anything."
"But my character?"
"Ambitious, luxury-loving and cruel," he began mockingly.