“Hello, Maida,” he turned to her. “What did you mean by making up that string of falsehoods?”
“Don’t talk about it, Jeff,” and the girl’s face went white. “If you do, I shall go mad!”
“I don’t wonder, Miss Wheeler,” said Keefe, sympathetically. “Now, as I’ve just told Allen, I’m coming back as soon as I can make it, and until I do, won’t you try to hold off those men? Don’t let them pound you and your parents into admissions better left unmade. I’m not asking you any questions, I’ve no right to, but I beg of you to keep your own counsel. If you are shielding someone, say as little as possible. If you are guilty yourself, say nothing.”
“‘Guilty herself!’ You’ve no right to say such a thing!” Allen cried out.
“Of course I have,” Keefe returned, “when I heard Miss Wheeler avow the crime! But I must go now. Here’s the car. Good-bye, both of you, and—Miss Wheeler, if I may advise, don’t confide too much—in anybody.”
The last words were spoken in an aside, and if Allen heard them he gave no sign. He bade Keefe good-bye with a preoccupied air, and as others joined them then, he waited till the car started, and then took Maida’s arm and led her away, toward the garden.
Miss Lane, of course, went with Keefe, and as the girls parted Maida had suddenly felt a sense of loneliness.
“I liked Genevieve a lot,” she said to Allen, as they walked away.
“I didn’t,” he returned.
“Oh, Jeff, you are so quick to take prejudices against people. I don’t mean I’m specially fond of Genevieve, but she was kind to me, and now I do seem so alone.”