The Ypsilanti Daily Press

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

WHEN MRS. FENNIMORE told Sandra that Spenser's father was in Washington the girl was so startled she could not hold back a gasp.

"Not really!"

"Careful, dear," came the older woman's voice in her ear.

The girl glanced toward the group about the breakfast room table. They seemed impervious, interested only in more popovers and strawberry jam.

Even so, she wished she dared go to the living room or upstairs extension. But that would act as a strong vitamin treatment on Spenser's curiosity and ensuing suspicion.

Sandra managed indifference.

"You may tell me about the organization's plans if you wish and I'll let you know my decision." She jammed the receiver against her ear to deaden Mrs. Fennimore's words.

"He telephoned me from Washington. He doesn't want Spenser to know, because something could go wrong at the last moment, but he intends to fly out and visit him."

"Um," said Sandra. She intended it to sound like an affable acknowledgement of her caller's information but, to her own ears, it sounded more like a groan.

"He didn't even want me to tell you. But I couldn't let you in for such a surprise." She herself groaned now. "Oh, Sandra, if I were the sort of woman who collapses, I'd have collapsed when I heard his voice and learned he was in Washington. He's meeting some Biggies there. You know, my dear, that little boy is from quite a family, both in rank and money. Oh, dear, when I think of the way he is living—"

Again she rambled.

"Maybe he'll not have time to get out west."

"Oh, but that" Sandra let her words die. "Um," she said again.

"I know what you wanted to say. It seems wicked to hope for such a thing, doesn't it? Well, blast it all, as Spenser would say, he wanted the boy to have an American life and that's what he is having—still, not many American boys are in pictures, are they?"

"Um," said Sandra.

"Don't let him know I telephoned you. I'll try to call again and give you the definite date. Just do your best, dear and—I'll—remember." she stammered, "I'll stand back of you."

But would that do much good, Sandra wondered, as she made her way back to the table. For once, in her experience, Mrs. Fennimore was rattled and it was disquieting.

Spenser was the only curious one. Even so, he did not stop buttering a popover when he asked: "Who?"

"A charity, begging. I'll investigate it first."

So the awkward moment passed. Outwardly, at any rate. But for Sandra it was worse than awkwardness. As the hours went by it became a time of stress.

She tried to imagine everything through the eyes of Spenser's father. How would old Brody look to him? And outspoken Belinda? What would he think about the studio life and the change in Spenser? What would he think of Bob Wakeman, especially if he came bounding in for lunch, so familiarly, as he had today? Oh, maybe Bob would have to get back to Chicago before Spenser's father could get to the coast.

Above all others, the one thought whirling in her brain was: What will he think of me?

On Monday, with Belinda back in school and Spenser at the studio, Sandra tried to think out her predicament. It had taken quite a pretense of headache tablets and cold cloths on the brow to get Spenser off by himself. But now the house was quiet.

Sandra put on a dressing gown of chartreuse silk and slipped down the back stairs. The cook was in the kitchen. She, even if Belinda did term her Crinkle-Puss, looked capable and very neat in her gray uniform and freshly laundered cap and apron. Surely not even Spenser's father could find anything the matter with her.

"Good morning, Alta," she called out, trying to sound slightly indisposed, but broken hearted.

"Good morning, Miss Edwards. Sit down at the breakfast table. I'm just making fresh coffee."

She served it soon, with thin whole wheat toast and a glass of pineapple juice. "Alta," said the girl, "I want you to find us an upstairs maid. We're having company. There'll be extra work."

While she still was talking, Brody came in from the service porch. He walked over and sat down. "I don't like that, ma'am. When you first came to the Mesquite you was nice enough to do your own work. I'll do the same here."

It dawned on Sandra that her conversation about company meant only one person. Himself.

She said gently: "Oh, we need someone besides Alta, Brody. We have talked about getting an extra servant."

The old fellow was adamant.

"You don't need 'em if I do my part."

Sandra put her hand over the old man's. It felt dry and rough to her touch, like a corn husk. "Brody, I wasn't talking about you. I shouldn't tell you this but, woman-like, I'm going to do it anyway."

She shivered faintly. "I'm so worried."

So she told him, knowing Alta was listening, but not caring. She was so desperate that nothing mattered.

Brody did not speak for a while. Finally he muttered: "Worry never helped nobody,"

"You worried about Belinda," Sandra reminded sharply.

"But you ain't worrying about Spenser so much as you're just worrying about yourself. And I swear I can't understand why. When Spenser's father looks at you he'll see about the prettiest finest girl in the world. This house is about like heaven. The boy has grown and looks fine. Even acts nice a lot of the time."

"He may not think all the wonderful things about me that you do, Brody."

"What if he doesn't? You haven't got time to make no changes by the time he'd get here, anyway. So let's just play checkers or something, while we sit waiting for Mrs. Fennimore's telephone call. When Spenser's father gets here, just don't talk too much and hop around all the time like so many females do. You just find you a soft chair and get in it and stay there."

"He might—" The words crawled into Sandra's throat and refused to go farther. "He might make Spenser—he might take him back to England with him."

"With all that shootin' still goin' on over there? Don't be a darn fool!" He added respectfully though belatedly, "Ma'am."

So they played checkers.

On Thursday she and Brody left their game of cribbage to peer out the window and determine the reason for their being serenaded by a siren. A motorcycle cop stopped directly before the house; then a long black limousine slid in back of it.

They did not attempt to come into the driveway, so Sandra and Brody had several seconds to watch them before they suddenly discovered the driveway and made a second arrival. Mrs. Fennimore, for some reason, had not been able to telephone. For here was Spenser's father. Sandra knew it, just as she knew it was Thursday afternoon and the cook was gone.

Never, in her worst nightmares, had she pictured the arrival of Spenser's father in a more fantastic fashion. It was awful. Even Brody looked flabbergasted and helpless.

Sandra had expected Spenser's father to wear tweeds. But he was slim and—yes—Spenser had been right about the Withington men—dapper, in a dark suit, a white starched collar and a necktie the same shade as his blue eyes.

She knew that, for now she was answering his ring and looking right into his eyes. They were tired, but still held the same arrogant twinkle as Spenser's.

He bowed politely, without much enthusiasm, as he said: "I'm Spenser's father." He straightened suddenly, really looked at Sandra for the first time. He stared, in fact, as if he were in a trance and glimpsing a vision.

(To Be Continued)