"But why should all that chivalry—that magnificent passion—the first love of a man like that—be called out by a woman of Mrs. Balfame's age? Why, it's some girl's right! I don't say mine. Don't think I'm a dog in the manger. I'm trying not to be. But the world is full of girls—not foolish young things only good enough for boys, but girls in their twenties, bright, companionable, helpful, real mates for men—Why, it is unnatural, damnable!"
"Yes, it is," said Broderick sympathetically. "But if human nature weren't a tangled wire fence electrified full of contradictions, life wouldn't be interesting at all. Perhaps it's a mere case of affinity, destiny—don't ever betray me. But there it is. As well try to explain the abrupt taking off of useful men in their prime, of lovely children, of needed mothers, of aged women who have lived exemplary lives, mainly for others, spending their last years with the horrors of cancer. Don't try to explain human passion. And she is beautiful, and fresher to look at than girls of eighteen that tango day and night. But he must be saved from her as well as from arrest. Will you help me?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Get further evidence about Mrs. Balfame."
"I cannot, and would not if I could. Do you think I would be the means of fastening the crime of murder on any woman?"
"You would if you were a hardened—and good—newspaper woman."
"Well, I'm not. And I won't. Do your own sleuthing."
"More than I are on the job, but I want your help. I don't say you can pick up fragments of her dress in the grove, or that you can—or would—worm yourself into her confidence and extract a confession. But you can set your wits to work and think up ways to put me on the track of more evidence than I've got now. Can you think of anything off-hand?"
"No."
"Ah? What does that intonation mean?"