Midnight struck and the date became Sunday, June sixth.
In the hush of the house, after the Tylers had retired, Margot went downstairs to a room just off the library where Cousin Elizabeth had cooked up her varied and lucrative business affairs. It contained Brandgwyn’s single telephone.
She called Jake in New York and told him about the rumored elopement, and its unreasonableness.
“It worries me,” she said. “I’d almost swear that Francine is being jostled into it against her will by Forrest Millay. The charming rat.”
“Rat, nonsense. He’s a sterling character.”
The Cleveland branch, Jake said, had put Davis right on the job, and Davis’s preliminary spadework had left the Millays with an excellent record. Naturally, further diggings might change it.
The Wade Park Manor, where they kep
