“All right, say with me,—I love you. Ready, one, two, three, go!”
“I love you!” they said in concert.
“No fun,” decided Dorcas; “I want you to tell me separately.”
So Richard did, to such an extent and with so much detail and reiteration that the moments flew by, and it was time to go home before the other side of the shield was painted.
“But, Ricky, dear,” Dorcas said finally, “I must talk a little about this awful thing. I’ve heard a lot of hints and whispers,—for mother and Kate shut up as soon as I come into the room,—and I want to know this: Is your aunt, Miss Prall, suspected of killing Sir Herbert?”
“Good Lord, no! What an awful idea! Where did you dig that up?”
“I’ve heard a lot, I tell you. And some people do think so!”
“But it’s absurd! Impossible! Also, I won’t have such talk going around! You must tell me, Dork, where you heard it! Tell me all you know.”
“I don’t know anything, Rick, but I think you ought to do something definite in the way of detective work. Those men don’t get anywhere?”
“Why, what do you mean? What do you know about that, Little Peachbloom?”