Her fair hair, not curly, but with a wave in it, shook as she raised her eyes to his, expectantly.
“Go ahead,” she said, demurely, and he could have sworn she was secretly laughing at him.
Like a flash the truth dawned in him.
“Pearl Jane Cutler,” he said, and his voice was impressive in its earnestness, “I know why you’ve bucked up! I know what has happened to you!”
“What?” she said, a little taken aback at his speech. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I do. I mean this.” He leaned forward a little to whisper:
“You’ve had a telephone message from Thomas Locke!”
Pearl Jane went white.
“What—what do you mean?” she cried; “how—how ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous, if you like, but the truth. Now, then, what did he say?”
“I don’t see how I can answer that, for I don’t admit the truth of your—your guess.”
“But it isn’t a guess—it’s a certainty. I know it. Nothing short of that would have given you this cocksure attitude—this little secret Bluebird of Happiness smile in the midst of all the doubt and uncertainty you are still experiencing! Come, little one, tell me all about it.”
“No, I won’t do it. You’ve no right to ask. Good-by, Mr. Hutchins,” and with a graceful little bow, she rose, flew into the adjoining bedroom and locked the door. Nor would she respond to any further summons.
