Читать книгу A Husband by Proxy - Jack Steele - Страница 8

For a moment, when he found himself alone, Garrison stood absolutely motionless beside the door. Slowly he came to the desk again, and slowly he assembled the bills. He rolled them in a neat, tight wad, and held them in his hand.

Word for word and look for look he reviewed the recent dialogue, shaking his head at the end.

He had never been so puzzled in his life.

The situation, his visitor—all of it baffled him utterly. Had not the money remained in his grasp he might have believed he was dreaming.

"She was frightened, and yet she had a most remarkable amount of nerve," he reflected. "She might be an heiress, an actress, or a princess. She may be actually married—and then again she may not; probably not, since two husbands on the scene would be embarrassing."

"She may be playing at any sort of a game, financial, political, or domestic—therefore dangerous, safe, or commonplace, full of intrigue, or a mystery, or the silliest caprice.

"She—oh, Lord—I don't know! She is beautiful—that much is certain. She seems to be honest. Those deep, brown eyes go with innocence—and also with scheming; in which respect they precisely resemble blue eyes, and gray, and all the other feminine colors. And yet she seemed, well, helpless, worried—almost desperate. She must be desperate and helpless."

Again, in fancy, he was looking in her face, and something was stirring in his blood. That was all he really knew. She had stirred him—and he was glad of the meeting—glad he had entered her employment.

He placed the roll of money in his pocket, then looked across his desk at the clean, white letter which the postman had recently delivered.

He took it up, paused again to wonder at the meaning of what had occurred, then tore the envelope and drew forth the contents.

He had barely spread the letter open when a knock on the door startled every thought in his brain.

His first conclusion was that Mrs. Fairfax had returned to repudiate her bargain and ask the surrender of her money. With a smile for any fate, he crossed the room and opened the door.

In the hallway stood a man—a little, sharp-faced, small-eyed, thin-nosed person, with a very white complexion, and a large, smooth-shaved mouth, open as if in a smile that never ceased.

"Garrison?" he said sharply. "Wicks—I'm Wicks."

"Wicks?" said Garrison. "Come in."

Mr. Wicks stepped in with a snap-like alacrity. "Read your letter," he said—"read your letter."

Obediently Garrison perused the missive in hand, typed on the steel-plate stationery of the New York Immutable Life Insurance Company: