"Reese and I have no secrets from each other," repeated Dorothy quietly.
Slosson regarded her, smiling once more. That smile was a triumph of irony, of subtle suggestion, of tacit implication.
"My dear Dot, I simply can't tell you what's going on! I—hang it, I'd say too much. Let me think. If there were only some way—"
He turned his back to her and stared out of the window.
Dorothy was conscious of alarm stirring within her. She had always suspected Pete Slosson of being a poseur, a very clever actor where women were concerned. At this moment, she forgot everything except the implied suggestion of his words. The desperate earnestness of his manner was convincing.
"You might leave a note," she began.
Slosson swung around on her with a quick, hard laugh.
"And implicate myself? Not much. I'm in it deep enough already. I never dreamed until too late how that infernal Ried Williams must be working for Macgowan—"
He broke off, shrugged, checked himself.
Mention of those names electrified Dorothy. She leaned forward. Her brain leaped to the conclusion that here was a chance to get some information, some warning, which must reach Reese at once. Perhaps it had something to do with the Wilmington meeting, or could be used there. It was her chance to help her husband.