"I thought so. You knew it that day out at the De Soto, when you was tellin' Mr. Raymer a little story that was partly true and partly made up—what?"
"And when you were sitting behind the window curtains listening," she laughed. "Yes; I knew it then. What about it?"
"I've been wonderin' as I set here, if there was anything on the top side of God's green earth that'd persuade you to tell me how much o' that story was made up."
She was smiling deliciously when she said: "You are from the South, Mr. Broffin, and I didn't suppose a Southerner could be so unchivalrous as to suspect a lady of fibbing."
He shook his head. "I wish you'd tell me, Miss Grierson. I'm in pretty bad on this thing, and if——"
"I can tell you what to do, if that will help you."
"It might," he allowed.
"Go away and take some other commission. It's a cold trail, Mr. Broffin."
"But you won't say that Griswold isn't the man?"
"It is not for me to say. But Miss Farnham says he isn't, and Mr. Galbraith—you tried him, didn't you? What more do you want?"