She did not look at him again, but he noticed that her cheeks were
scarlet, and that the long lashes drooped as if she were trying to hide
her eyes. She went now and again from the room on her silent, deft
errands, bringing and taking dishes, filling the glasses with ice water,
seeming to know at a glance just what was needed. Whenever she went from
the room he tried to persuade himself that it was not she, and then became
feverishly impatient for her return that he might anew convince himself
that it _was_. He felt a helpless rage at the son of the house for the
familiar way in which he said: "Mary, fill my glass," and could not keep
from frowning. Then he was startled at the similarity of names. Mary! The
men on the street had used the name, too! Could it be that her enemy had
tracked her? Perhaps he, Dunham, had appeared just in time to help her!

His busy brain scarcely heard the questions with which his host was plying
him, and his replies were distraught and monosyllabic. At last he broke in
upon the conversation:

"Excuse me, but I wonder if I may interrupt you for a moment. I have
thought of something that I ought to attend to at once. I wonder if the
waitress would be kind enough to send a 'phone message for me. I am afraid
it will be too late if I wait."

"Why, certainly," said the host, all anxiety. "Would you like to go to the
'phone yourself, or can I attend to it for you? Just feel perfectly at
home."

Already the young man was hastily writing a line or two on a card he had
taken from his pocket, and he handed it to the waitress, who at his
question had moved silently behind his chair to do his bidding.