Masters jumped to his feet.
"Look out!" howled H.M. "You'll step on your hat!"
Masters seemed to meditate giving the hat a swift kick. Instead, with powerful dignity, he corked himself; but the ruddiness of his countenance was not caused by the heat.
H.M. turned to Ann.
"What do you say?" he asked softly. "You knew Fane pretty well. Would you say he was capable of an act like that?"
Ann looked away from him, down at the grass. Again Courtney saw the clear profile: the mouth wide and full-lipped, the nose a little broad for complete beauty. He had an impression that she wanted to tell them something, and was almost on the point of telling it, yet checked herself.
"I didn't know him well," she defended herself, scuffing the toe of her shoe in the grass.
"Who is, or was, this Polly Allen? Did you know her?"
Ann shook her head emphatically. "I've never even heard the name. She was probably — well!"
"But you haven't answered my question. Would you say Arthur Fane might do a thing like that?" She faced him.