This revelation of Babe’s secret passion was, for some reason which Tab could not define, an extremely disquieting one.
“My dear Babe,” he said more mildly, “the young lady is not of the loving or marrying sort—”
Suddenly he remembered.
“Why, you are a millionaire now, Babe! Jumping Moses!”
Rex blushed again and then Tab whistled.
“Do you mean in all seriousness that you are truly fond of her?”
“I adore her,” said Rex in a low voice. “I got so rattled when I heard a fellow say she was going to be married, that I had to send you to see her.”
Tab interrupted him with a roar of delighted laughter.
“So that was why I was sent on a fool’s errand, eh?” he asked, his eyes dancing. “You subtle dog! It was to bring balm to your bruised heart that an eminent crime specialist must stand, hat in hand, in the dingy purlieus of a playhouse, begging admission to the great actress’s dressing-room.” He was serious in a moment. “I hope this isn’t a very violent attachment of yours, Rex,” he said quietly, “in the first place, it struck me that Ursula Ardfern is not of the marrying kind, that even your great possessions would not tempt her. In the second place—” he stopped himself.
“Well?” asked Rex impatiently. “What ever other just cause or impediment do you see?”