"Tut, tut, Miss Westbrook; I do know. I understand perfectly, and sympathize with you."
"Still," she persisted, "if I had only known this morning! If—"
The talk was becoming a series of interruptions.
"Ah, 'if,'" he took her up. "You are familiar with the saying about one convinced against his will, eh? This morning I recognized the necessity of a—er—a softening influence—the ineptness of a mere man. If you had been in the same mood then that you are now, I should have missed one of the pleasantest hours of my life. So you see, that even a young lady's whims and caprices are not without their compensations. What have you learned that has moved you to kindlier feelings?" He spoke lightly; but there was an intelligible purpose in his concluding question.
"About Clay—about Mr. Fairchild," she murmured, shyly. Another wave of color, deeper than before, dyed her cheeks. "Is it true you do not suspect him of—of—"
Converse sobered before her earnest, searching inspection.
"My dear young lady," he returned, gravely, "it is entirely owing to Mr. Fairchild himself and to you, that any suspicion was ever drawn to him. Between the two of you, each has done about all that could be done to make me suspect the other. Then the Doctor—well, among you all, you've succeeded in getting things badly tangled up."
"That would make me very happy were there not so much else to distress me."
He regarded her with the utmost seriousness. What peculiar conception did she have of her position? She seemed utterly blind to its peril—or else was recklessly disregardful. But it was an easy matter to adapt himself to her present compliant humor.
"Still, Miss Westbrook," said he, "there is much yet that needs clearing up. After all this delay the situation has become serious and will require extraordinary deftness in its handling—especially as concerns yourself. If you and Mr. Fairchild cannot lend me a very considerable aid, my task will be prodigious. The additional distress which you may be obliged to endure I hesitate to point out."