"
"There is nothing to be done but wait," her father decided.
"And meanwhile," she went on, "supposing he were to discover
Beatrice, supposing they two were to come together; supposing he
were to tell her what he knows and she were to tell him what she
guessed!"
The professor buried his face in his hands. Elizabeth threw her
cigarette away with an impatient gesture.
"What an idiot I am!" she declared. "What is the use of wasting
time like this?"
There was a knock at the door. A trim-looking French maid
presented herself. She addressed her mistress in voluble French.
A coiffeur and a manicurist were waiting in the next apartment;
it was time that Madame habited herself. The professor listened
to these announcements with an air of half-admiring wonder.
"I suppose I must be going," he said, rising to his feet. "There
is just one thing I should like to ask you, Elizabeth, if I may,
before I go."
"Well?"
"Who was the young man whom I met here just now?"
"Why do you ask that?" she demanded.
"I really do not know," her father replied, thoughtfully, "except
that his appearance seemed a little singular. In some respects
he appeared so commonplace. His clothes and bearing, in fact,
were so ordinary that I was surprised to find him here with you.
And, on the other hand, his face--you must remember, my dear,
that this is entirely a professional instinct; I am still
interested in faces--"
"Quite so," she admitted.
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