CRIMSON MOUNTAIN by Grace Livingston Hill

asked, “What line are you in?”
    “Oh, I’m a writer by trade,” said Rainey, indifferently. “Plenty to write about in these days, of course.”
    Byrger bowed. “Plenty.”
    That was the end of the conversation until they entered the city. Then Rainey asked to be let out in front of a large printing establishment where a number of magazines and newspapers were published, and quite at a distance from the room where he and Winter made their home.
    “Thanks so much for the lift,” he said to Byrger. “It’s been so pleasant. Perhaps we shall soon meet again.”
    “Well—yes,” said the other. And then with an unexpected gleam in his fishy eyes, he added, “Could be!”
    As Rainey climbed the stairs to the office of a magazine on the fourth floor where he had at different times sold some of his articles and stories, he reflected how little he had been able to learn of his companion on that ride. Just cryptic phrases, uncanny questions, knowing looks, inscrutable silences, and a sense that the man had not only been studying him, analyzing his very soul, and accurately reading him, but also that he had been belittling him and despising him. This was no very good report to make to Winter when he should have to account for himself to his colleague. There was no alternative but to be mysterious, as indeed Winter had been with him the night before. He would not have to tell all he had discovered about the man, nor indeed to let it be known how very little he was really wiser for that drive to the city.
    So after a brief call on his editor friend and a briefer discussion of the article he was to write for the paper in the near future, Rainey betook himself to his room in search of Winter. And not finding him, he went on to find Dexter and see if there were further orders in the future.

Chapter 7
    L aurel was done early that morning. She had been too excited to do much sleeping after her extensive packing was done, and she was ready to step out at a moment’s notice from the cousin’s home where she had been visiting.
    She knew that her cousin would not be down early after her late bridge party, and it might just happen that it would be so late that she would have to be on her way before Carolyn awoke, for she still was holding to her purpose of going whenever Pilgrim should call her. So she slipped out to the kitchen and coaxed the servant who was getting breakfast to let her have some toast and coffee at once, saying she didn’t know but she might have to go away in a very few minutes in case she got a phone call.
    It was while she was finishing the hasty breakfast that the telephone rang, and then she heard Pilgrim’s voice say, “Is that you, Laurel?” Strangely, delightedly her heart throbbed with happiness.
    “Yes, Phil!” There was a pleasant eager friendliness in her voice that did things to Phil’s heart in spite of his best resolves.
    “Well, listen,” he said. “I found my lawyer. He’s willing to go over to Carrollton this afternoon and fix things up. I phoned Banfield, and he understands it all and will have his man on hand when I get there.”
    “Good!” said Laurel. “That’s the way you wanted it, isn’t it?”
    “Yes. It’s the best way, of course. But see, I’ve got to either be there before my lawyer arrives on the afternoon train and meet him and take him to Banfield’s house, or else I’ve got to stay here till the noon train and ride over with him. He’s going to look up all the papers and get everything in shape, and he wants to ask me a few more questions after he gets hold of my grandfather’s will and the deed to the property, which is in the bank. So I guess that lets you out of a heavy burden you put upon yourself and relieves you of my company. I shall be the loser of course, but I fancy that will greatly simplify the situation as far as you are concerned.”
    “No,” said Laurel firmly, “it won’t simplify the situation at all. There are a lot of questions I