"All right." Worth gave the girl a look that brought something of that wonderful rose flush fluttering back into her cheeks. "I'm betting on her. Go to it, Bobsie—let him in on your mathematical logic."
"You used the word 'coincidence,' Mr. Boyne." She leaned across toward me, eyes bright, little finger tip marking her points. "Allow one coincidence—that the only description, the only photograph missing from your files are those of the self-effacing Clayte. To-day Clayte has proved to be a thief—"
"In seven figures," Worth threw in, and she smiled at him.
"You would call that another coincidence, Mr. Boyne?"
I nodded, rather unable at the moment to think of a better word to use.
"Two coincidences," she went on,—"we are still in mathematics—you can't add. They run by geometrical progression into the impossible."
The phone rang. While I turned to answer it, my mind was still hunting a comeback to this. The call was from Foster, just in from Ocean View and reporting for instructions. Covering the transmitter with my hand, I told Worth the situation and asked,
"Any suggestions?"
"Not I," he shook his head. I added, a bit sarcastically,