"Of course not," replied George, patting her hand. "Now tell me the story. Wait. Was it you mother who told you of my father's death?"
"Yes," assented Lola. "She often talked of your fathers,"
"I heard she was in love with him," said George, slowly.
Lola shrugged her shapely shoulders. "That I know not. My dear mother was handsome--oh, yes, and dark, and fond of gayness. She might have loved--eh--it is not impossibles."
"Did she ever hint who killed my father?"
Lola shook her head. "No. Never did she say anythings. He was found dead--stabbed--" she made a gesture, "that was all--all!"
Evidently she could tell him nothing, so George reverted to more immediate matters. "How about that night? You knew that I was going to Mrs. Jersey's on that night?"
"Ah, but yes. You did tell me."
"Then what made you come also? Was it to see me?"
Lola put her finger in her mouth and looked down. "No, my George. I did want that confessions of the fat old lady, to stop you being milor, and then I thought you would marry only poor Lola."