The hotel lobby was just over my head, and the
window was open.
"What did you say?"
"---- ---- ---- ----"
"McGill? Yes, sir, registered here last night. She's here now."
I didn't wait to hear more. Unfastening Bock, I hurried to
tell Mifflin. His eyes sparkled.
"The Sage is evidently on our spoor," he chuckled. "Well, let's
be off. I don't see what he can do even if he overhauls us."
The clerk was calling me from the window: "Miss McGill, your
brother's on the wire and asks to speak to you."
"Tell him I'm busy," I retorted, and climbed onto the seat.
It was not a diplomatic reply, I'm afraid, but I was too
exhilarated by the keen morning and the spirit of adventure to
stop to think of a better answer. Mifflin clucked to Peg, and
off we went.
The road from Shelby to Port Vigor runs across the broad hill
slopes that trend toward the Sound; and below, on our left,
the river lay glittering in the valley. It was a perfect
landscape: the woods were all bronze and gold; the clouds
were snowy white and seemed like heavenly washing hung out to
air; the sun was warm and swam gloriously in an arch of superb
blue. My heart was uplifted indeed. For the first time, I
think, I knew how Andrew feels on those vagabond trips of his.
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