She challenged and defied him with her eyes.
"I congratulate—er—Mr. Humphries on his good taste. Are you his—girl?"
She simpered.
"Ye-yes. That's to say—well, I'm darn sure he's mine. That pink-faced little goo-goo at Young's dance-hall; an' that Smith kid—father's a rancher an' she wears cow-gal clothes an' thinks she owns the place—they say he's theirs. But he ain't. He's mine, 'cause he says so."
She finished on a note of triumph.
"Well, in that case," Hector smiled, "it must be so. Go on."
He was wondering if tragedy lay ahead.
"Mr. Humphries—he's my fellow. An'—an'—you've put him in jug, Major Adair!"
The last was an accusation meant to wither him; but, somehow, it failed.
"I'm sorry, Miss Lavine. I had to."