“No. What’s the matter, old fellow?”
“Dot!” said Jerry, staring down at me without now seeing me at all.
“Dorothy Crewe?” I asked, in the way I have of asking perfectly obvious questions.
“Yes, Steve.”
“Oh; you’ve quarrelled?” I said, imagining I saw a light. “That’s it.”
“I’d trade a good many quarrels for what happened—probably, Steve.”
“To her?” I said again, stupidly.
He did not exactly nod his head but he inclined it a trifle lower. “The damnedest thing, Steve; the queerest affair!” he said, looking quickly at me again. He brushed my book to the floor and dropped on the foot of the bed and sat there, staring straight ahead without speaking for a minute while he listened for sounds in the street or below; but there was nothing.
He swung about and demanded of me suddenly, “You noticed Dot to-night?”
“Of course, old fellow. Besides, she was with you most of the time.”