Dale lowered her revolver slowly. It was Richard Fleming--
come to meet her here, instead of down by the drive.
She had telephoned him on an impulse. But now, as she looked at
him in the light of her single candle, she wondered if this rather
dissipated, rather foppish young man about town, in his early
thirties, could possibly understand and appreciate the motives that
had driven her to seek his aid. Still, it was for Jack! She
clenched her teeth and resolved to go through with the plan mapped
out in her mind. It might be a desperate expedient but she had
nowhere else to turn!
Fleming shut the terrace door behind him and moved down from the
alcove, trying to shake the rain from his coat.
"Did I frighten you?"
"Oh, Mr. Fleming--yes!" Dale laid her aunt's revolver down on the
table. Fleming perceived her nervousness and made a gesture of
apology.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I rapped but nobody seemed to hear me, so I
used my key."
"You're wet through--I'm sorry," said Dale with mechanical
politeness.
He smiled. "Oh, no." He stripped off his cap and raincoat and
placed them on a chair, brushing himself off as he did so with
finicky little movements of his hands.
"Reggie Beresford brought me over in his car," he said. "He's
waiting down the drive."
Dale decided not to waste words in the usual commonplaces of social
greeting.
"Mr. Fleming, I'm in dreadful trouble!" she said, facing him
squarely, with a courageous appeal in her eyes.
Pages:
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126