Oliver grinned. “That’s all he and Silas Link think about these days—fixing up alibis for me. They grab up the morning paper to see where the latest murder has occurred and then they hustle out and establish an alibi for me.”
“How perfectly delicious,” cried little Mrs. Sammy. “Don’t you think it is really perfectly delicious, Mr. Sage?”
“I beg your pardon?” stammered the pastor apologetically. “I am afraid I was thinking about Henry the Eighth.”
“Oh, you are so literary, Mr. Sage,” shrieked Mrs. Sammy admiringly.
Oliver was strangely restless during dinner, and immediately after the company arose from the table at its conclusion he asked Jane to come with him for a little stroll in the open air.
“I want to speak to you about something,” he urged. “Better throw something over your shoulders. The night air—”
“Ought you to go off and leave the others, Oliver?” she began, a queer little catch, as of alarm, in her voice. “Muriel and Sammy—”
“Come along,” he pleaded. “They won’t mind. I must see you alone for a few minutes, Jane.”
“I will get my wrap,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “It may be chilly outside.”
“Why, you’re shivering now, Janie,” he whispered anxiously, as he threw her wrap over her shoulders. “Are you cold?”