"I know it isn't," he admitted; "when we want, we do a lot that isn't right. What is it you have to tell me?"
"It's about Porshinger—" she hesitated.
"You knew Gladys was going to ask him?" he said.
She shook her head. "No, I didn't—she did it on the spur of the moment, I'm sure, though she may have had this matter we are coming to in mind. You're puzzled—and I don't wonder. Tell me, Montague, did you ever have any trouble with Porshinger?"
"Not especially!" he said, trying to throw surprise into his voice. Who had told her?
"Not especially!" she repeated. "What does that mean?"
"Perhaps you would better tell me what you mean," he said.
"Yes, I think I would," she replied, "and it's this: I lunched with Marcia Emerson yesterday at Partridge's—then I took her home in my car. On the way she told me that a few nights prior she was up at the Club until late, and while sitting alone on the piazza she had overheard Porshinger and Murchison—who were seated around the corner from her and evidently thought they had the place to themselves—discussing you. It was only a few words, but they were significant. Murchison asked if there was anything new in the Lorraine affair.
"'Not much,' said Porshinger. 'The matter is progressing; Pendleton is not invulnerable—I've found a way to reach him, and he soon will be having troubles of his own.'
"Murchison advised him to leave well enough alone; to which Porshinger replied that that might be Murchison's way but it wasn't his way—that you had started the fight, and you would think 'merry hell was loose' before he was done with you."