Whispering Smith
McCloud, conscious of the awkwardness of his position and the disorder of his garb, said the worst thing at once: “I fear I am inadvertently overhearing your conversation.”
He looked at Dicksie as he spoke, chiefly because he could not help it, and this made matters hopeless.
She flushed more deeply. “I cannot conceive why our conversation should invite a listener.”
Her words did not, of course, help to steady him. “I tried to get away,” he stammered, “when I realized I was a part of it.”
“In any event,” she exclaimed hastily, “if you are Mr. McCloud I think it unpardonable to do anything like that!”
“I am Mr. McCloud, though I should rather be anybody else; and I am sorry that I was unable to help hearing what was said; I”
“Marion, will you be kind enough to give me my gloves?” said Dicksie, holding out her hand.
Marion, having tried once or twice to intervene, stood between the firing-lines in helpless amazement. Her exclamations were lost; the two before her gave no heed to ordinary intervention.
McCloud flushed at being cut off, but he bowed. “Of course,” he said, “if you will listen to no explanation I can only withdraw.”
He went back, dinnerless, to work all night;
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