"Is that so?" he asked.
The judge, a trifle mystified, broke into the conversation.
"Well, she seems to have proved that she didn't neglect you, Mr. Zenda. Don't see why she should go to such pains, unless"—and he laughed—"Miss Deane wants to prove that she played fair;—didn't give any one else a prior opportunity to make a million dollars out of her pretty face."
"Miss Deane can easily prove that she is playing fair," said Zenda.
"I want to," said Clancy quickly.
Walbrough was a clever man. It was pardonable in him not to have suspected earlier that there was some byplay of talk to whose meaning he was not privy. But now he knew that there was some meaning not understood by him in this talk.
"Here's the car," he said. "Suppose you ride home with us, Zenda?"
"I have some friends. If you'll wait a moment—" And Zenda was off.
In silence, Clancy entered the judge's limousine. Then Mrs. Walbrough, settling herself comfortably, suddenly patted the girl upon the hand. She was a keen woman, was Mrs. Walbrough; she sensed that something was troubling Clancy. And the judge cleared his throat portentously.
"Miss Deane," he said, "I don't know your relation to Mr. Zenda. But, if you'd care to consider yourself my client——"