“Alexander,” called Mrs. Trevor in a low voice, “is that you?”
“Yes’m.”
“I’d like to see you.”
Connie, hat in hand, ascended the steps with the liveliness of a pallbearer. He glanced toward the end of the porch where Art sat, apparently engrossed in his magazine.
“Were you with Arthur this afternoon?” asked Mrs. Trevor quietly but pointedly.
“Yes’m,” looking intently across the street.
“Did Marshal Walter speak to your parents?”
“Yes’m,” slowly and with another furtive look toward his chum.
“What did your father think about it?”