He walked along half blindly, thinking round in circles, always coming back to the possibility—now practically a certainty—of Maida being the murderer, and wondering how Keefe meant to save her from the clutches of the law. He was perturbed—almost dazed, and as he went along unseeingly, Genevieve Lane met him, turned and walked by his side.
“What’s Curtie Keefe doing with your girl?” she asked, for the rolling lawn was so free of trees, the pair beneath the sycamore could be plainly seen.
“I don’t know!” said Allen, honestly enough, as he looked in the good-humored face of the stenographer.
“I don’t want him making love to her,” Miss Lane went on, pouting a little, “first, because she’s altogether too much of a belle anyway; and second—because——”
She paused, almost scared at the desperate gaze Allen gave her.
“I hope you mean because you look upon him as your property,” he said, but without smiling.
“Now, just why do you hope that?”
“Because in that case, surely you can get him back——”
“Oh, what an aspersion on Miss Wheeler’s fascinations!”
“Hush; I’m in no mood for chaffing. Are you and Keefe special friends?”