"Harland was in love—madly in love."
This was news to me. I hadn't looked for it and I didn't know where it might lead. I didn't have to hide my interest; he expected it, was gratified when he saw me open-mouthed. But he had to do a little more acting, and tapping on his wine glass with his forefinger said languid to the waiter:
"Fill it up—the lady won't take any." Then, his eyes following the smoke rings—"Nobody had an idea of it—nobody but me. I knew Harland better than many who considered themselves his friends."
"You knew him," it came out of me before I thought, or I'd never have put the accent on the "you" that way.
"I knew him well. He'd—er—taken rather a fancy to me."
I couldn't say anything—the man he'd killed! Fortunately he didn't notice me. The wine he'd taken was beginning to make him less sharp. Not that he was under the influence, but he was not so clear-headed and his natural vanity was coming up plainer every minute. He went on:
"I met him quite casually in the Black Eagle Building and then—well, something about me attracted him. Anyway we grew friendly—and—er—that's how I stumbled on his secret."
"His love?"
He inclined his head majestically:
"You can see how it was possible when I tell you the lady was Miss Whitehall."