I threw away the cigar and opened. "I
thought it was you," said I. "I'm familiar with the knocks of all the
others. And this was new--like a summer wind tapping with a flower for
admission at a closed window." And I laughed with a little raillery, and
she smiled, colored, tried to seem cold and hostile again.
"Shall I go with you to your sitting-room?" I went on. "Perhaps the cigar
smoke here--"
"No, no," she interrupted; "I don't really mind cigars--and the windows are
wide open. Besides, I came for only a moment--just to say--"
As she cast about for words to carry her on, I drew up a chair for her.
She looked at it uncertainly, seated herself. "When mama was here--this
afternoon," she went on, "she was urging me to--to do what she wished.
And after she had used several arguments, she said something I--I've been
thinking it over, and it seemed I ought in fairness to tell you."
I waited.
"She said: 'In a few days more he'--that meant you--'he will be ruined. He
imagines the worst is over for him, when in fact they've only begun.'"
"They!" I repeated. "Who are 'they'? The Langdons?"
"I think so," she replied with an effort. "She did not say--I've told you
her exact words--as far as I can.
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