"I didn't know it," she denied, adding: "but you have dropped the Weyburn?"
"Naturally."
Again there was a little interval of silence, and as before, she was the first to break it.
"So you are one of the owners of the famous Little Clean-Up? Are you very rich, Bertie?—you see, I can't give up the old name, all at once."
"No; I am not rich—as riches are counted nowadays."
"But you are going to be in just a little while," she put in, following the confident assertion with a query that came as suddenly as a stiletto stab: "Who is the girl, Bertie?"
"What girl?"'
"The girl you are going to marry. I saw her with you at the Broadway one night three weeks ago; I sat right behind you. She doesn't 'pretty' very much, to my way of thinking."
Once again I felt the murder nerve twittering. This woman with a mocking voice and a heart of stone knew everything; I was as certain of it as if I could have seen into the plotting brain behind the long-lashed eyes. I knew now why she hadn't glanced aside at me as she passed on the way to the elevators in the Brown Palace the previous evening. She had discovered me long before. At whatever cost, I must know how long before.
"You saw me last night, and three weeks ago at the theater," I said. "How long have you known that I was in Colorado?"