I didn't mean--"
"I think perhaps you're right," said Emma McChesney slowly. "It is
just that."
"Well, anyway, we'll do our best to trace it. Guess you're in for a
wait."
Emma McChesney waited. She made the rounds of her customers, and
waited. She wired her firm, and waited. She wrote Jock to run along
and enjoy himself, and waited. She cut and fitted a shirt-waist, took
her hat apart and retrimmed it, made the rounds of her impatient
customers again, threatened to sue the road, visited the baggage-room
daily--and waited.
Four weary, nerve-racking days passed. It was late afternoon of the
fourth day when Mrs. McChesney entered the elevator to go to her room.
She had come from another fruitless visit to the baggage-room. She
sank into a leather-cushioned seat in a corner of the lift. Two men
entered briskly, followed by a bellboy. Mrs. McChesney did not look
up.
"Well, I'll be dinged!" boomed a throaty voice. "Mrs. McChesney, by
the Great Horn Spoon! H'are you? Talking about you this minute to my
friend here.
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