“Who told you?”
“I thought I heard you moaning, and before I went to sleep I went into your room. There were stains of tears on your pillow.”
“Uncle, there was a man yesterday, Benny Burnside, who tried to make me think my mother was dead.”
Mr. Compton squeezed his lips together, and sparks shot from his eyes.
“If all the fools in Los Angeles were sentenced to death and all were pardoned except one, he’s the one who would go hang. He’s a handsome creature; but all his beauty isn’t anywhere near enough to make up for the tremendous vacancy in his head. And did you believe him, Bobby?”
“He almost made me believe. That’s what I was fighting about before I could get to sleep. But I did feel so mean!”
“There’s no sense, my boy, in giving up hope till you have to.”
“I say, uncle, you were worrying too last night. You don’t look right yourself.”
As a matter of fact John Compton had passed a long and sleepless night.
“Well, suppose we toddle along,” he said, with a forced smile. So forth went the two, each struggling for faith against an uneasiness born of a foolish detective’s rash report.