It was not as if Graham had kissed her, he pondered. It was Paula who had kissed Graham. That was love, and passion. He had seen it, and as it burned again before his eyes, he felt his heart surge, and the premonitory sensation of suffocation seized him. With a sharp effort of will he controlled himself and got to his feet.
“By God, it came up in my mouth and I chewed it,” he muttered. “I chewed it.”
Returning across the patio by the round-about way, he entered the lighted room jauntily enough, camera in hand, and unprepared for the reception he received.
“Seen a ghost?” Lute greeted.
“Are you sick?"—"What’s the matter?” were other questions.
“What is the matter?” he countered.
“Your face—the look of it,” Ernestine said. “Something has happened. What is it?”
And while he oriented himself he did not fail to note Lottie Mason’s quick glance at the faces of Graham and Paula, nor to note that Ernestine had observed Lottie’s glance and followed it up for herself.
“Yes,” he lied. “Bad news. Just got the word. Jeremy Braxton is dead. Murdered. The Mexicans got him while he was trying to escape into Arizona.”
“Old Jeremy, God love him for the fine man he was,” Terrence said, tucking his arm in Dick’s. “Come on, old man, ’tis a stiffener you’re wanting and I’m the lad to lead you to it.”