"'Proposing again,'" echoed Randall. "Why—you know——"
She cut into his speech. She wasted no time.
"That man outside! Do you know why he's watching me?"
"Is he watching you?" Randall's surprise was palpably assumed. It annoyed Clancy.
"You know that he is!" she cried. "Aren't you curious?"
Randall breathed heavily. He sat bolt upright.
"I want you to know, Miss Deane, that it doesn't matter a bit to me. Whatever you may have done, I am sure that you can explain."
At any other time, Clancy would have flamed fire at his tone. Into his speech had entered a certain stiltedness, a priggishness, almost, that would have roused all the rage of which she was capable. And as she would be able to love greatly, so would she be able—temporarily—to hate. But now she was intent on self; she had no thought to spare for Randall—save in so far as he might aid her.
"'Explain?'" Her voice almost broke. "It's—it's pretty hard to explain murder, isn't it?"
Randall's lower jaw hung down.