"No, officer," I went on glibly. "Nothing wrong. This man was here on a business matter. Left late. Running for a train, I suppose—weren't you, Jim?"
"Yes," came hoarsely from Pendleton, and a quiver of triumph ran down my spine.
"There'll be a train—let's see—" I fumbled. The policeman glanced quizzically from one to the other of us, then shrewdly interposed:
"Train to N'York at three-seven. No use running," he grinned. My ear, hypersensitive at that moment, seemed still to catch a note of doubt in the zealous constable's voice. And when I longed to fling out, in the words of the ballad—
He is either himsel' a devil frae hell,
Or else his mother a witch maun be,
I heard myself saying calmly, "Thank you, officer." Then to Pendleton:
"Don't you want to come in and spend the night after all, Jim?"
"No, I better go," mumbled Pendleton, edging away.
"Sorry to have troubled you, gentlemen," apologized Halloran suavely. "But you know—so many robberies in the suburbs—orders is to look out extry sharp. Good night to ye, Mr. Byrd. Good night, sir," he nodded with ill-concealed contempt at Pendleton.
"Good night," muttered Pendleton and slouched off heavily down the gravel path.