“I am wondering if Philip ever told you anything about his father,” he said; and he tried to say it casually.
“Oh, yes; he has told me all there was to tell, I think: how his father went away under a—under a cloud, and how he has been searching for him out here. Was that what you meant?”
Bromley nodded. There was nothing in her tone or manner to lead him to believe that she had anything more than a friendly interest in Philip’s problem, and he went on.
“He has been away for two weeks, or nearly two weeks. He left town the next morning after he walked home with you that Monday evening. He didn’t tell me where he was going. Did he tell you?”
“He said he might go to the camps down in the San Juan next. But he didn’t say anything about going so soon. Haven’t you heard from him since that time?”
“No; he hasn’t written me,” Bromley hastened to say, telling a half-truth which was little short of a lie direct.
“But you are not anxious about him, are you?”
“Anxious? Why should I be?”
“But I think you are,” she said, looking him fairly in the eyes.
As upon certain other occasions, he tried hard to plumb the depths of the dark eyes that were lifted to his, striving to read the answer to a question that had been tormenting him ever since his first meeting with her. How much did she care for Philip? Was she as much in love with him as he was with her? If she were, this was neither the time nor the place for the repeating of Drew’s story. But if she were not ... he made up his mind suddenly and took the plunge.