“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” he asked in a peevish tone. “You ought to be chipper as a lark, and yet I swear you’ve got something on your mind.”
Stovebridge glanced quickly around, but there was no one within hearing distance.
“I can’t help worrying about the girl,” he said in a low voice. “I heard this morning that the doctor was there all night. They’re afraid of internal complications.”
“That’s too bad, of course,” Marston remarked, without any particular feeling in his voice. “But I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. You’re safe, no matter what happens.”
“But if she should die, there’ll be a rigid investigation,” Stovebridge said slowly. “You can’t tell what they might unearth. The idea makes me cursed nervous.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t borrow trouble!” the other said sharply. “If you keep on going around with that long face some one will begin to smell a rat. All you’ve got to do is to sit tight and say nothing. They can’t prove anything on you if you only throw a good bluff.”
Neither of them gave a thought to the dumb youth who was raking the drive some forty feet away. But had Stovebridge seen the ferocious glare in the dark eyes which were furtively watching him, he would have been more than disturbed—he would have been seriously alarmed.
Marston yawned again and stretched himself lazily.
“Wish somebody would come around so we could get up a little poker game,” he remarked. “This sitting here doing nothing is deadly dull.”
Stovebridge arose to his feet with sudden resolution.