"Now, Steve—"
"Well, maybe that's the way I feel. Everything I put my great big clutching hands on turns dark green and starts to rot. Regardless of which side they're on, it goes one, two, three, four; Catherine, Thorndyke, You, Nurse Farrow."
"Steve, what on Earth are you talking about?"
I smiled down at her in a crooked sort of quirk. "You, of course, have not the faintest idea of what I'm thinking."
"Oh, Steve—"
"And then again maybe you're doing your best to lead my puzzled little mind away from what you consider a dangerous subject?"
"I'd hardly do that—"
"Sure you would. I'd do it if our positions were reversed. I don't think it un-admirable to defend one's own personal stand, Marian. But you'll not divert me this time. I have a hunch that I am a sort of male Typhoid Mary. Let's call me old Mekstrom Steve. The carrier of Mekstrom's Disease, who can innocently or maliciously go around handing it out to anybody that I contact. Is that it, Marian?"
"It's probably excellent logic, Steve. But it isn't true."
I eyed her coldly. "How can I possibly believe you?"