“Good bluff!” said Jack in his most tantalizing drawl.
“Jack Burgess, I expect you to talk sense the rest of the time you’re here,” remonstrated Betty impatiently.
“Well, I will on one condition. Tell me why you sent it to him.”
“Sent what to whom?” demanded Betty.
“Oh come,” coaxed Jack. “You know what I mean. Why did you send Bob that valentine? It almost crushed me, I can tell you, when I hadn’t even heard from you for months.”
Betty was staring at him blankly, “Why did I send ‘Bob’ that valentine? Who please tell me is ‘Bob’?”
“Robert M. Winchester, Harvard, 19–. Eats at my club. Is sitting at the present moment on the other side of the aisle, two rows up and over by the boxes. You’ll know him by his pretty blush. He’s rattled–he didn’t think I’d see him.”
“Well?” said Betty.
“Well?” repeated Jack.
“I never saw Mr. Robert M. Winchester before,” declared Betty with dignity, “and of course I didn’t send him any valentine. What are you driving at, Jack Burgess?”