“Of course it is,” Roberta defended him quickly. “I really can not tell you why I came nor whither I go. I might say I came hither from thither and I am going hence; why do I not know.”
“Sounds mysterious. What sort of bird is this Mrs. Pollzoff?” Powell inquired.
“She seems perfectly all right,” was the answer.
“Why the seems—”
“Robert,” Helen objected.
“I have a queer sort of feeling about her; I can’t explain it. Last night she was at Mr. Anthony’s but I only caught a glimpse of her, and this morning—” She broke off and flushed. “I have to admit that I am making a whole mountain range out of less than an ant hill, but the truth is, every simple thing she does seems mysterious. Guess I have been developing nerves.”
“Tell me about it,” Robert urged quietly. “If it’s nerves, going over the facts will show them up in their true light and you’ll feel better. We all get to a point where things do not seem right.”
“Perhaps it would be a good idea,” she admitted, then told him of her relations with Mrs. Pollzoff, leaving out nothing, not even the attempted theft of Nike.
“Humph,” Powell grunted. “There really isn’t a thing alarming in what you have told me, Roberta, but just the same, even though our reasons insist that everything is hunky—when you get a hunch as strong as the one you have, don’t disregard it, that’s my motto. I believe aviators have a sort of sixth sense that warns them, or tries to, and it’s always a safe bet to pay strict attention. I’ve heard other flyers say the same thing, so, if I were you, I’d watch my step mighty carefully.”
“Don’t make her feel worse than she does,” Helen urged.