Chapter XXII--Detective Work
It was on my arm. When I rolled up my sleeve, S. K. gasped.
“I’ll give up,” he said. “There is something supernatural about it!”
“No,” I replied, trying to quote from him, “there is always some logical and sane explanation of things of this sort. You see, I put it there.”
He said, “You little devil!” and then he smiled unwillingly. “Think you’re funny, don’t you?” he continued.
I said I hoped so, for I was trying to be, and then I told him why I had deceived him; about Mr. Bilkins, and how, if he were not around, there would be no one to smooth things if they were rough. And I added that I couldn’t possibly spare him, that anxiety would have kept me awake all that night, and that I was sorry I fibbed.
“You’re forgiven,” he answered. “I like the story--especially the last part. . . . But--what gets me is the fact that I put off seeing a detective until this morning, when last night might have got the chap.”
“S. K.,” I said loudly, “I beg you not to get one, because that note said that if I told I’d be hurt. If you have the slightest regard for my feelings, you will do nothing, and let events care for themselves. In fact, I forbid your doing so, and it is, after all, my matter.” I ended this coolly and as if I meant it. Then I stood up, rubbed my hand across my forehead, and said: “I’ve got to get out in the fresh air. Can’t we motor?”
He said we could, and he was very baffled and upset by my manner, which was not natural.
“You’re upset by this,” he said, as he buttoned my coat for me, “and I simply won’t have it. You shan’t be made nervous and jumpy, and I----”