“Yes, I think so. It does seem so queer for me to decide these things! I can’t get used to the fact that I’m my own guardian!”
“You’re of age, Olive,” and Mrs. Vail smiled.
“Oh, yes, and I’ve had entire control of my money for some time. But Uncle always decided all matters of importance,—though, goodness knows, there never were any such to decide as those that beset us now! Think of my engaging a detective!”
“But Wise is so interesting and so adaptable, you’ll really like him. I’ll ask him to call here with me some afternoon or evening and you can get acquainted.”
“I’d like to meet him,” put in Mrs. Vail; “I knew a man once who wanted to be a detective, but he died. I’ve never seen a real detective.”
“Pennington Wise is a real one, all right,” I declared. “Of course, Miss Raynor, I shall tell the police that you are employing a private detective, for I don’t think it a good plan to do it secretly. It is never wise to antagonize the police; they do all they can, popular prejudice to the contrary notwithstanding.”
“Very well, Mr. Brice,” and Olive gave me a look of confidence. “I don’t care what you do, so long as you attend to it. I don’t want to see those horrid police people again.”
I thought to myself that she might be obliged to do so, unless Penny Wise could find another way to make them look. But I did not tell her so, for nothing raised her ire like the hint of suspicion directed toward herself in the matter of Amos Gately’s murder.
“How dare they!” she exclaimed, her eyes fairly snapping with anger; “to dream that I—Olive Raynor—could—why, it’s impossible to put it into words!”
It did seem so. To look at that dainty, lovely girl,—the very ideal of all that is best and gentlest in human nature,—it was impossible to breathe the word murder in the same breath!