Penciled in small, even lines were the words:
Sorry to find the lady-bird flown. Will call up in the morning. H. P.
Even in the dimly lighted hall, Quin could see the flush that suffused
Eleanor's face.
"It's Harold Phipps," she said, trying to be casual. "I--I didn't know he
was in town."
Quin followed her into the apartment, and stood dully by the table as she
untied the box and lifted half a dozen exquisite white orchids from their
bed of maidenhair ferns. Then, trying very hard to keep his voice steady,
he asked gently:
"What does this mean, Miss Nell? I thought you weren't going to have
anything more to do with that man."
"Well, I haven't. That is, not--not until he came on last month to see
about the play."
"What play?"
"'Phantom Love.'"
"But why did you have to see him?"
"Because I am to be in the play."
"Not in _his_ play?"
"No more his than Papa Claude's."
Quin's face darkened.
"I saw him for only a few minutes," Eleanor went on, "and Papa Claude was
with us. I give you my word, Quin, I've never spoken to him alone, or
answered one of his letters."
"Then he has been writing to you? What business has he got worrying you
with letters and flowers when you have told him you are through with
him?"
In spite of his effort to keep calm, there was a rising note of anger in
his voice.
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