“Before?”

“Certainly.”

“How often?”

“Why, nearly every day.”

She was a mischievous newsmonger, and was keenly wondering what the effect of her words would be.

“Who did he come to see?” asked the drummer, incredulously.

“Mrs. Drouet.”

He looked rather foolish at this answer, and then attempted to correct himself so as not to appear a dupe.

“Well,” he said, “what of it?”

“Nothing,” replied the girl, her head cocked coquettishly on one side.

“He’s an old friend,” he went on, getting deeper into the mire.

He would have gone on further with his little flirtation, but the taste for it was temporarily removed.  He was quite relieved when the girl’s named was called from below.

“I’ve got to go,” she said, moving away from him airily.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, with a pretence of disturbance at being interrupted.

When she was gone, he gave freer play to his feelings.  His face, never easily controlled by him, expressed all the perplexity and disturbance which he felt.  Could it be that Carrie had received so many visits and yet said nothing about them?  Was Hurstwood lying?  What did the chambermaid mean by it, anyway?  He had thought there was something odd about Carrie’s manner at the time.  Why did she look so disturbed when he had asked her how many times Hurstwood had called?  By George!  He remembered now.  There was something strange about the whole thing.

He sat down in a rocking-chair to think the better, drawing up one leg on his knee and frowning mightily.  His mind ran on at a great rate.

And yet Carrie hadn’t acted out of the ordinary.  It couldn’t be, by George, that she was deceiving him.  She hadn’t acted that way.  Why, even last night she had been as friendly toward him as could be, and Hurstwood too.  Look how they acted!  He could hardly believe they would try to deceive him.

His thoughts burst into words.

“She did act sort of funny at times.  Here she had dressed, and gone out this morning and never said a word.”

He scratched his head and prepared to go down town.  He was still frowning.  As he came into the hall he encountered the girl, who was now looking after another chamber.  She had on a white dusting cap, beneath which her chubby face shone good-naturedly.  Drouet almost forgot his worry in the fact that she was smiling on him.  He put his hand familiarly on her shoulder, as if only to greet her in passing.

“Got over being mad?” she said, still mischievously inclined.

“I’m not mad,” he answered.

“I thought you were,” she said, smiling.

“Quit your fooling about that,” he said, in an offhand way.  “Were you serious?”

“Certainly,” she answered.  Then, with an air of one who did not intentionally mean to create trouble, “He came lots of times.  I thought you knew.”