"He—he said he couldn't explain," added Polly in an agitated voice. "And he seemed so nervous about it that I felt sorry for him. Truly I did, Rosalind."
"I haven't the least doubt," icily. "Tell me exactly what you said."
"He said it first. He said that he knew that I knew that he wasn't Billy Kellogg, and I admitted that I did know it, and that I thought that he knew I knew it. And then before I could say anything, he said that he couldn't explain, and he hoped I would not say anything—particularly to you. He—he seemed to be afraid of you, Rosalind. And, of course, after he said he couldn't explain, I couldn't very well ask him. Now, could I?"
"Of course not," said Rosalind in a withering voice.
"And he doesn't look like a murderer either, Rosalind; so I didn't ask him about that. He said he'd explain as soon as he could, and he wanted to know what Mr. Morton thought about him. I told him I thought Mr. Morton probably thought what you did. Was that right?"
"I am not accountable for Mr. Morton's thoughts."
"At any rate, I'm sure he won't do any harm, Rosalind—he seems so dreadfully embarrassed."
"And after talking to him for half an hour, you haven't the least idea who he is or why he came here?" Rosalind demanded.
"I—I'm afraid not."
Rosalind threw her hands wide in a gesture of hopelessness.