Lansing stood up and caught Mrs. Vanderlyn by the wrist. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?"
"Oh, nothing. . . . But you were both such bricks about the letters. . . . And when Nelson was here, too. . . . Nick, don't hurt my wrist so! I must run!"
He dropped her hand and stood motionless, staring after her and listening to the click of her high heels as she fled across the room and along the echoing corridor.
When he turned back to the table he noticed that a small morocco case had fallen among his papers. In falling it had opened, and before him, on the pale velvet lining, lay a scarf-pin set with a perfect pearl. He picked the box up, and was about to hasten after Mrs. Vanderlyn—it was so like her to shed jewels on her path!—when he noticed his own initials on the cover.
He dropped the box as if it had been a hot coal, and sat for a long while gazing at the gold N. L., which seemed to have burnt itself into his flesh.
At last he roused himself and stood up.
