She did not speak, but her unconvinced and quizzical smile hurt him.
“You wait and see, Miss Sangster, and you’ll see that editor man is mistaken.”
“You mean the program is to be changed?” she queried audaciously.
He quivered to the cut of her words.
“I am not accustomed to lying,” he said stiffly, “even to women.”
“Neither have you to me, nor have you denied the program is to be changed. Perhaps, Mr. Glendon, I am stupid, but I fail to see the difference in what number the final round occurs so long as it is predetermined and known.”
“I’ll tell you that round, and not another soul shall know.”
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
“It sounds to me very much like a racing tip. They are always given that way, you know. Furthermore, I am not quite stupid, and I know there is something wrong here. Why were you made angry by my naming the round? Why were you angry with your manager? Why did you send him from the room?”
For reply, Glendon walked over to the window, as if to look out, where he changed his mind and partly turned, and she knew, without seeing, that he was studying her face. He came back and sat down.