. . .
But the thing that tantalized him about her and filled him with despair
was that, though one moment she might be the first woman in the
birthday of the world filled with the primitive emotions of the
explorer, the next she was a cool, Paris-gowned-and-shod young modern,
about as competent to meet emergencies as anything yet devised by
heaven and a battling race.
They crossed to Morningside Park and moved through it to the northern
end where the remains of Fort Laight, built to protect the approach to
the city during the War of 1812, can still be seen and traced.
Beatrice had read the story of the earthworks. In the midst of the
telling of it she stopped to turn upon him with swift accusation,
"You're not listening."
"That's right, I wasn't," he admitted.
"Have you heard something about your cigarette girl?"
Clay was amazed at the accuracy of her center shot.
"Yes." He showed her the newspaper.
She read. The golden head nodded triumphantly. "I told you she could
look out for herself. You see when she had lost you she knew enough to
advertise."
Was there or was there not a faint note of malice in the girl's voice?
Clay did not know. But it would have neither surprised nor displeased
him. He had long since discovered that his imperious little friend was
far from an angel.
At his rooms he found a note awaiting him.
Come to-night after eleven. I am locked in the west rear room of the
second story.
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