CHAPTER V
An hour passed. John sat at the table in his room, paper before him, pen idle in his hand. The room was heated by a grating in the floor which gave into the room below where the girl sat, and from time to time the creak of her chair or the rustle of papers came up to him. Beyond those sounds and the talk of the pines outside, there was no break in his solitude. Then a car came, stopping in front of the house, and a rap sounded on the door.
Helen Foraker rose to open it. A tall man with a thin red nose, a stoop, a celluloid collar and small greedy eyes stood on the step, a package under his arm.
"What do you want, Sim Burns?" she asked, but did not move to bid him enter.
"Evenin'," and his eyes shifted to the interior, swinging back to her face when he saw that the room was empty. "I want to talk to you."
She did not reply at once, but her eyes which were in shadow held on his; she saw the bronze of his face deepen, but he did not go on with his errand; not even when she said impatiently: "Yes?"
"It's nothin' I can say in a minute. I'd rather come in."
She stepped back and let him enter, closing the door behind her and watching the man as he unbuttoned his overcoat and shook the water from it.
"You don't need to stand by the door, Miss Foraker. I ain't goin' to hurt you."
"I'm sure of that. Sit down."
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