“Who do you think a jury would rather believe, me or him?” she demanded confidently. “Especially if I was all dressed up and looked at them, all the time I was testifying.”
“Well,” said Bob, “I don’t believe you could do it, anyhow. Besides, it would be stretching friendship too far. Though you’re a jolly little pal to offer to!” She hunched a dainty little shoulder against his strong arm.
“I’d go through fire and water for you,” breathed the jolly little pal.
“It’s fine of you to say it,” answered Bob fervently. “I haven’t many friends now, you know. But—but it’s impossible, what you propose. It would only get you into trouble. I’d be a big brute to allow that. It would make me out a fine pal, wouldn’t it? Besides, it wouldn’t do any good. Some one else heard me go into your room and knows all about it. Some one else would fortify what the monocle-man would tell. And her testimony and his would overwhelm yours. And I’d never forgive myself for your being made a victim of your own loyalty.”
“Was that some one else Miss Gerald?” asked the jolly little pal quickly.
“Yes,” said Bob. As he spoke he glanced toward Miss Gerald.
Gee-gee had now started to sing and nearly every one’s head was turned toward the vivacious vocalist. Bob saw Miss Gerald’s proud profile. He saw, too, the hammer-thrower, next to her, as usual. On the other side of the hammer-thrower—the side nearer where Gee-gee stood—was the lady who had given Bob the “cold shoulder” a few nights ago at dinner. The hammer-thrower’s eyes were naturally turned toward that cold shoulder now, and, as naturally, his gaze should have been bent over it, toward the vocal center of attraction for the moment.
But his gaze had stopped at the shoulder, or something on it. Bob noted that look. For a fraction of a minute, or second, it revealed a sudden new odd intensity as it rested on a lovely string of pearls ornamenting the cold shoulder. And at the same instant a wave of light seemed to sweep over Bob. For that fraction of a minute he seemed strangely, amazingly, to have been afforded a swift glimpse into a soul.
The whole thing was psychic. Bob couldn’t have told just how he came to know. But he knew. He was sure now who had taken Mrs. Vanderpool’s brooch. Strangely, too, the hammer-thrower, after that fraction of a second’s relaxation of vigilance over his inner secret self, should have turned and looked straight toward Bob. His look was now heavy, normal. Bob’s was burning.
“You!” his eyes said as plainly as if he had called out the word.