“Mary—for God’s sake—don’t let that woman—or any one else, speak of—Anne—in connection with Cassavetti,” I said, in a hoarse undertone.
“Anne! Why, what on earth do you mean?” she faltered.
“He doesn’t mean anything, except that he’s considerably upset,” said Jim’s hearty voice, close at hand. He had followed us in from the garden. “You go back to your guests, little woman, and make ’em talk about anything in the world except this murder affair. Try frocks and frills; when Amy Vereker starts on them there’s no stopping her; and if they won’t serve, try palmistry and spooks and all that rubbish. Leave Maurice to me. He’s faint with hunger, and inclined to make an ass of himself even more than usual! Off with you!”
Mary made a queer little sound, that was half a sob, half a laugh.
“All right; I’ll obey orders for once, you dear, wise old Jim. Make him come back to-night, though.”
She moved away, a slender ghostlike little figure in her white gown; and Jim laid a heavy, kindly hand on my shoulder.
“Buck up, Maurice; come along to the dining-room and feed, and then tell me all about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I persisted. “But I guess you’re right, and hunger’s what’s wrong with me.”
I managed to make a good meal—I was desperately hungry now I came to think of it—and Jim waited on me solicitously. He seemed somehow relieved that I manifested a keen appetite.