"What about it? Were you teasing Joe?"

"No, it was you I was after."

"Well? Did you get me?"

Hedrick made another somewhat ghastly pretence of mirth. "Well, I guess I've had about all the fun out of it I'm going to. Might as well tell you. It was that book of Laura's you thought she sent you."

Richard stopped short; whereupon Hedrick turned clumsily, and began to stalk back in the direction from which they had come.

"That book--I thought she--sent me?" Lindley repeated, stammering.

"She never sent it," called the boy, continuing to walk away. "She kept it hid, and I found it. I faked her into writing your name on a sheet of paper, and made you think she'd sent the old thing to you. I just did it for a joke on you."

With too retching an effort to simulate another burst of merriment, he caught the stump of his right stilt in a pavement crack, wavered, cut in the air a figure like a geometrical proposition gone mad, and came whacking to earth in magnificent disaster.

Richard took him to Mrs. Lindley for repairs. She kept him until dark: Hedrick was bandaged, led, lemonaded and blandished.

Never in his life had he known such a listener.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

That was a long night for Cora Madison, and the morning found her yellow. She made a poor breakfast, and returned from the table to her own room, but after a time descended restlessly and wandered from one room to another, staring out of the windows. Laura had gone out; Mrs. Madison was with her husband, whom she seldom left; Hedrick had departed ostensibly for school; and the house was as still as a farm in winter--an intolerable condition of things for an effervescent young woman whose diet was excitement. Cora, drumming with her fingers upon a window in the owl-haunted cell, made noises with her throat, her breath and her lips not unsuggestive of a sputtering fuse. She was heavily charged.

"Now what in thunder do _you_ want?" she inquired of an elderly man who turned in from the sidewalk and with serious steps approached the house.

Pryor, having rung, found himself confronted with the lady he had come to seek. Ensued the moment of strangers meeting: invisible antennae extended and touched;--at the contact, Cora's drew in, and she looked upon him without graciousness.

"I just called," he said placatively, smiling as if some humour lurked in his intention, "to ask how your father is. I heard downtown he wasn't getting along quite so well."

"He's better this morning, thanks," said Cora, preparing to close the door.

"I thought I'd just stop and ask about him. I heard he'd had another bad spell--kind of a second stroke."

"That was night before last. The doctor thinks he's improved very much since then."

The door was closing; he coughed hastily, and detained it by speaking again. "I've called several times to inquire about him, but I believe it's the first time I've had the pleasure of speaking to you, Miss Madison. I'm Mr. Pryor." She appeared to find no comment necessary, and he continued: "Your father did a little business for me, several years ago, and when I was here on my vacation, this summer, I was mighty sorry to hear of his sickness. I've had a nice bit of luck lately and got a second furlough, so I came out to spend a couple of weeks and Thanksgiving with my married daughter."

Cora supposed that it must be very pleasant.

"Yes," he returned. "But I was mighty sorry to hear your father wasn't much better than when I left. The truth is, I wanted to have a talk with him, and I've been reproaching myself a good deal that I didn't go ahead with it last summer, when he was well, only I thought then it mightn't be necessary--might be disturbing things without much reason."

"I'm afraid you can't have a talk with him now," she said. "The doctor says----"

"I know, I know," said Pryor, "of course. I wonder"--he hesitated, smiling faintly--"I wonder if I could have it with you instead."

"Me?"

"Oh, it isn't business," he laughed, observing her expression.

"That is, not exactly." His manner became very serious. "It's about a friend of mine--at least, a man I know pretty well. Miss Madison, I saw you driving out through the park with him, yesterday noon, in an automobile. Valentine Corliss."

Cora stared at him. Honesty, friendliness, and grave concern were disclosed to her scrutiny. There was no mistaking him: he was a good man. Her mouth opened, and her eyelids flickered as from a too sudden invasion of light--the look of one perceiving the close approach of a vital crisis. But there was no surprise in her face.

"Come in," she said.

. . . . When Corliss arrived, at about eleven o'clock that morning, Sarah brought him to the library, where he found Cora waiting for him. He had the air of a man determined to be cheerful under adverse conditions: he came in briskly, and Cora closed the door behind him.

"Keep away from me," she said, pushing him back sharply, the next instant. "I've had enough of that for a while I believe."

He sank into a chair, affecting desolation. "Caresses blighted in the bud! Cora, one would think us really married."

She walked across the floor to a window, turned there, with her back to the light, and stood facing him, her arms folded.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, noting this att.i.tude. "Is it the trial scene from a faded melodrama?" She looked steadily at him without replying. "What's it all about to-day?" he asked lightly.

"I'll try to give you the proper cues if you'll indicate the general nature of the scene, Cora mine."

She continued to look at him in silence.

"It's very effective," he observed. "Brings out the figure, too.

Do forgive me if you're serious, dear lady, but never in my life was I able to take the folded-arms business seriously. It was used on the stage of all countries so much that I believe most new-school actors have dropped it. They think it lacks genuineness."

Cora waited a moment longer, then spoke. "How much chance have I to get Richard Lindley's money back from you?"

He was astounded. "Oh, I say!"

"I had a caller, this morning," she said, slowly. "He talked about you--quite a lot! He's told me several things about you."

"Mr. Vilas?" he asked, with a sting in his quick smile.

"No," she answered coolly. "Much older."

At that he jumped up, stepped quickly close to her, and swept her with an intense and brilliant scrutiny.

"Pryor, by G.o.d!" he cried.

"He knows you pretty well," she said. "So do I now!"

He swung away from her, back to his chair, dropped into it and began to laugh. "Old Pryor! Doddering old Pryor! Doddering old a.s.s of a Pryor! So he did! Blood of an angel! what a stew, what a stew!" He rose again, mirthless. "Well, what did he say?"

She had begun to tremble, not with fear. "He said a good deal."

"Well, what was it? What did he tell you?"

"I think you'll find it plenty!"

"Come on!"