"Dwight Rush."
This time Alys did not sit up with flaming eyes. To the astute gaze of the reporter she took herself visibly in hand. But she bit through the long tube between her lips. "What makes you think that?" she asked, as she tossed the bits into the fire and lighted another cigarette. "You roam too far afield for me."
"He is in love with her."
"With whom?"
"The lady who was so opportunely, if somewhat sensationally, made a widow last Saturday night."
"He is not! Why—how absurd you are to-night, Jim. She is a thousand years older than he."
"How old is she—"
"Forty-two. Mother sent her a birthday cake last month."
"Rush is thirty-four. Who cares for eight years on the wrong side these days? She looks younger than he does, to say nothing of her own inconsiderable age; and when a woman is as lovely as Mrs. Balfame, as interesting as she must be with that astute mind, that subtle suggestion of mystery—"
"You are mad, simply mad. In the first place, he has had no chance to find out whether she is interesting or not—if he had, all Elsinore would have rung with it. And—ah—"