"That's my affair," he threw back over his shoulder.
He had his hand on the knob when a thought—an inspiration flashed on me. I don't know where it came from, but when you're fond of a person and see them headed for a precipice, I believe you get some sort of wireless communication from Heaven or some place of that order.
"Miss Whitehall's not in town now," I said.
He stopped short and looked back at me:
"Where is she?"
"They've gone back to New Jersey. Some people loaned them a cottage in the Azalea Woods Estates."
"I knew that—but they're not there yet?"
"Yes. They went yesterday, sooner than they expected."
He stood for a moment, looking at the floor, then glanced back at me and said:
"Thank you for telling me that. Good night."