THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
Shortly, he thought, he must look around for an apartment. He hated hotels; and yet the thought of living in an apartment was equally distasteful.
That night he dug his things out of the trunks and cases. A good many of them would have to go to the tailor. So he searched through the pockets. In the handkerchief pocket of his swallow-tailed coat—he hadn't worn it in six years—he found one of his own visiting-cards. On the back was scribbled: "Take mortgages down to Bordman." It all came back clearly. He now knew where those elusive mortgages were. Machiavelli and Hercules, joining forces, might recover them; but how was he, James Armitage? Of all the twisted labyrinths!
For six consecutive mornings he rode through the Park with Doris Athelstone. And for the same number of mornings he heard the splendid and variegated adventures of Hubert Athelstone. For Doris was always harking back to her favorite topic, her father. She recited excerpts from letters. Armitage grew very much interested in this extraordinary man. Ordinarily, being a
67
