You have a wonderful
physique but you must go home to bed."
"It can't be done--I want to hear about your little visit to the
apartment, and the story of the diary. I'll ask the clerk."
A bill glided across the register of the hotel desk, and the
greeter promised to attend to the club sandwiches himself. He
led them to a cosey table, in the deserted room, and started out
to send the bell-boy to a nearby lunchroom.
"Just a minute please,--if any one calls up Miss Marigold, don't
let them know she has returned. I have something important to
say, without interruption: you understand?"
"Yes, I get you, sir," and the droll part was that with a
familiarity generated of the hotel arts he did understand even
better than Shirley or Helene. He had seen many other young
millionaires and golden-haired actresses. Shirley looked across
the table into the astral blue of those gorgeous eyes. Certain
unbidden, foolish words strove to liberate themselves from his
stubborn lips.
"I am a consummate idiot!" was all that escaped, and Helene
looked her surprise.
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