“No. It was his daughter Connie. Third from the aisle in the front row.”
She followed his gaze.
There was no hint of coquetry in the eyes of the raven-haired girl. There was something in them quite different — a swift glow of gratitude tempered by an anxiety that shadowed her clear elfin beauty. Then she turned away.
Pat smiled with feline sweetness.
“I see. How nice of her to think you might need some excitement!”
Hoppy’s porcine eyes blinked.
“Boss, ain’t she de Champ’s girl friend?”
“So I’ve heard.” Simon smiled and blew a large smoke-ring that rose lethargically over the seat in front of him and settled about the bald pate of its occupant like a pale blue halo.
A scattered burst of cheering greeted Torpedo Smith’s entrance into the ring.
“Shouldn’t you be more careful about picking your leading ladies?” Pat inquired with saccharine concern.