Jack Beecham and Tom Shealey looked at each other in blank surprise. They then indulged in a long stare—not a mere look or glance, but a long, open stare—at Roy. Under the two pairs of very wide-open eyes he remained as inscrutable as a sphinx. There was not a movement of eyes or lips which could give them the slightest clue by which they might arrive at some understanding of the strange announcement.
“You don't mean to say,” said Shealey, with eyes still wide open, “that, after all, you are in some way impli— oh! hang it all, I'm talking nonsense now,”
Roy Henning burst out laughing. Notwithstanding his worry he enjoyed his friends' bewilderment.
“I guess you are,” he said.
“Look here, Mr. Roy Aloysius Henning,” said Jack Beecham, “I consider you the most inexplicable, inexorable, incomprehensible creature on the face of the footstool. Now look here! No humbug, you know—we, your friends, I, Tom, and Brose, for here he comes—demand from you an explanation right here and now. You must tell us the whole affair.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No. I can not do it.”
“If you don't do it, I'll——”Jack stopped dismayed. He saw that Roy was firm. “I'll fling some more big names at you.”
“Can't help it, Jackie. I guess I can stand 'em.”