grimly. How ill-advised she had been when she named that foolish, wayward boy.
He went over to his desk and sat down. No doubt it was some escapade of Victor’s, he reflected, that was responsible for the scene shortly to be enacted here in this office on Post Street. Yes, of course, that was it. Victor, lurking in the wings, was about to ring down the final curtain on the drama of the Phillimore pearls.
He was deep in his mail when, a few moments later, his secretary opened the door and announced: “Madame Jordan is calling.”
Eden rose. Sally Jordan was coming toward him over the Chinese rug. Gay and sprightly as ever—how valiantly she had battled with the years! “Alec—my dear old friend—”
He took both her fragile hands in his. “Sally! I’m mighty glad to see you. Here.” He drew a big leather chair close to his desk. “The post of honor for you. Always.”
Smiling, she sat down. Eden went to his accustomed place behind his desk. He took up a paper-knife and balanced it; for a man of his poise he appeared rather ill at ease. “Ah—er—how long have you been in town?”
“Two weeks—I think—yes, two weeks last Monday.”
“You’re not living up to your promise, Sally. You didn’t let me know.”
“But I’ve had such a gay round,” she protested. “Victor is always so good to me.”
“Ah, yes—Victor—he’s well, I hope.” Eden looked away, out the window. “Fog’s lifting, isn’t it? A fine day, after all—”
“Dear old Alec.” She shook her head. “No good beating
