He doubted whether,
in the hurry of departure, Rosemary Roselle had remembered to bring any
money.
Still, she would be cared for, supplied with every necessity, at
Bramant's Wharf. There he would leave her ... his breathing stopped,
for, incredibly, he saw that her hand was suspended over the piece of
cake. She took it up and ate it slowly, absently. This, he felt, had
created a bond between them; but it was a conviction in which,
apparently, she had no share. She might have thanked him but she
didn't.
An underhanded and indefensible expedient occurred to him, and he sat
for a perceptible number of minutes concentrating his memory upon a dim
and special object. Finally he raised his head.
"Indy," he quoted, "a large light mulatto, hasn't much sense but a
great deal of sensibility. That," he added of himself, "is evidently
very well observed." He saw that Rosemary turned her head with an
impatient curiosity. "She is very unfortunate," he continued
uncertainly; "she lost a present of money and couldn't work till it was
given back."
"But how," demanded Rosemary Roselle, "did you know that?" Curiosity
had betrayed her.
Elim Meikeljohn concealed a grin with difficulty. It was evident that
she profoundly regretted the lapse, yet she would not permit herself to
retreat from her position. She maintained a high intolerant aspect of
query.
"Have you forgotten," he went on, "how the dread day rolled around?" He
paused wickedly.
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