“Yes, but he’s a very bright boy,” Maida returned. “I’ve been surprised at his wise observations.”
“Poppycock! He gets off his speeches with that funny mixture of newsboy slang and detective jargon, and you think they’re cleverer than they are.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Maida, not greatly interested. “But what a strange story Rachel told. Do you believe it, Mr. Keefe?”
“Yes, I do. The girl was frightened, I think; first, at the information she tried to divulge, and second, by finding herself in the limelight. She seems to be shy, and I daresay the sudden publicity shook her nerves. But why shouldn’t her story be true? Why should she invent all that?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. But it didn’t sound like Rachel—the whole thing, I mean. She seemed acting a part.”
“Nonsense! You imagine that. But never mind her, I’ve something to tell you. I know—Maida, mind you, I know what Mr. Appleby meant by the speech which I took to be ‘Mr. Keefe and the airship.’”
Maida’s face went white.
“Oh, no!” she cried, involuntarily. “Oh, no!”
“Yes,” Keefe went on, “and I know now he said heirship. Not strange I misunderstood, for the words are of the same sound—and, then I had no reason to think of myself in connection with an heirship!”
“And—and have you now?”