Bob looked startled. “Don’t!—” he began. He wondered into what new realm her inventive faculties would lead her.
“Mr. Bennett,” observed the monocle-man gravely, “I have to remind you that anything you say can be used against you. And your manner now, in seeking to restrain or interfere with what Miss Dolly has to say, will certainly hurt your case.”
Bob groaned. He cast hunted eyes upon Miss Dolly. The jolly little pal breathed hard, but there was a look of determination in the dark soulful eyes.
“Mr. Mike Something, or whatever your name is,” she said to the monocle-man in a low tense tone, “I am all that which you suggested.”
He overlooked the scornful mode of address. He rubbed his hands softly; his eyes were pleased. “You mean about agreeing to be accomplices and to divide the ‘swag’?”
“Yes.” Fatalistically.
Bob groaned again.
The temperamental little thing looked up in the air. She would be mainly responsible for sending Bob to jail—the thought burned. What was a treacherous but repentant pal’s duty under the circumstances? She had a vision, too, of those adjoining cells.
“You see,” she began dreamily, “my father is rather sparing of the spending money he allows me, and I have terribly extravagant tastes. Why, my hats alone cost a fortune. I simply have got to have nice and expensive things.” Again Bob groaned. Dolly dreamed on: “I’ve bushel-baskets of silk stockings, for example. See!” Displaying an exquisite ankle. “My gowns all come from Paris. Gwendoline can tell you that.” Miss Gerald did not deny. “And they’re not gowns from those side-street dressmakers, either. They come from the places on the rue de la Paix. Besides”—Dolly’s dream expanded—“I like to take things.” Another groan from Bob. “I think I’m a clepto.”
“There isn’t one word of truth in what she’s saying,” exclaimed Bob indignantly. “Why, it’s outrageous. She doesn’t realize what she’s doing.”