"I want you to say he isn't; then I'll go away."
"You may put me in jail for contempt of court, if you like," she jested. "I refuse to testify. But I will tell you what you asked to know—if that will do any good. Every word of the story about Mr. Griswold—the story that you overheard, you know—was true; every single word of it. Do you suppose I should have dared to embroider it the least little bit—with you sitting right there at my back?"
"But you did think for a while that he might be the man—what?"
"Yes; I did think so—for a while."
Broffin got up and took a half-burned cigar from the ledge of the summer-house where he had carefully laid it at the beginning of the interview.
"You've got me down," he confessed, with a good-natured grin. "The man that plays a winnin' hand against you has got to get up before sun in the morning and hold all trumps, Miss Grierson—to say nothin' of being a mighty good bluffer, on the side." Then he switched suddenly. "How's Mr. Galbraith this morning?"
"He is very low, but he is conscious again. He has asked us to wire for the cashier of his bank to come up."
Broffin's eyes narrowed.
"The cashier is sick and can't come," he said.