Annoyance was plainly visible upon the other's countenance. “I was just congratulating myself on a find,” he declared; “you must at least stay with me until I get some one else.” He paused; Anthony made no comment. “Now, listen to what I will do,” he pronounced finally; “if you will stay with me for a month I'll give you a hundred dollars and your expenses--it will be clear money. I... I had thought of taking a little trip in the car, I'm feeling the store a little, and I need a discreet man. Think it over--a hundred in your pocket, and you may be able to get off in three weeks.” He left hurriedly, without giving Anthony an opportunity for further speech. It was an alluring offer, a hundred dollars secured for the future, for Eliza. He speculated about the prospective trip, Hartmann's wish to secure a “discreet” man, the foreman's insinuations. However, the motive didn't concern him, the wage was his sole consideration, and that, he decided, he could not afford to lose. He whistled to a newsboy, and, studying the baseball scores, waited comfortably for his employer. Later he drove Hartmann, now accompanied by Kuhn, out of town, through a district of suburban villas, smooth, white roads and green lawns, into the farmland and pasturage beyond. They finally stopped at an inn of weathered grey stone set behind a row of ancient elms. A woman was sitting on the portico, and she rose and came forward sinuously as the men descended from the motor car. Anthony saw that she had a full, voluptuous figure, lustreless, yellow hair, and sleepy eyes. Hartmann patted her upon the shoulder, and the three moved to the portico, where they sat conversing over a table of whiskies and soda. Occasional shrill bursts of laughter, gross terms, reached Anthony. The woman lounged nonchalantly in her chair; she wore a transparent white waist, through winch was visible a confused tracery of purple ribband, frank rubicund flesh. When the men rose, Hartmann kissed her. “Thursday,” he reminded her; “shortly after three.” “And I'll depend on you,” Kuhn added,--“a good figger and a loving disposition. We don't want any dead ones on this trip.” “Laura's all right,” she assured him; “she's just ready for something of this sort; she goes off about twice a year.” When they had started, Hartmann leaned forward. “Going Thursday... that little trip I spoke to you about.--No talking, understand. Look over the tires, get what you think-necessary for five or six hundred miles.” He tended Anthony a crisp, currency note. “Here's the five. Your salary starts to-morrow.” That night Anthony wrote a letter of explanation to his father, a note to California in reference to his trunk, and a short communication to Eliza.--He was not certain that she would receive it. Her parents, he was convinced, were opposed to him--they were ignorant of the singleness, the depth, the determination, of his love. XXV