"Where did you go to church this morning?"
Norma flushed, and laughed a little.
"I went down to the Cathedral; I'm fond of it, you know. Why?"
"Did you meet Chris Liggett?" Wolf asked.
"Yes—I did, Wolf. He goes to the church near there, now and then."
"When you telephone him to," Wolf said, grimly.
Norma began to feel frightened. She had never heard this tone from Wolf before.
"I did telephone him, as a matter of fact—or rather he happened to telephone me, and I said I was going there. Is there anything so horrifying in that?" she asked.
"Just after you went out, the telephone operator asked me if the Murray Hill number had gotten us," Wolf answered; "that's how I happen to know."
Norma was angry, ashamed, and afraid, all at once. For twenty feet they walked in silence. She stole more than one anxious look at her companion; Wolf's face was set like flint. He was buttoned into the familiar old overcoat, a tall, brown, clean-shaven, and just now scowling young man of the accepted American type, firm of jaw, keen of eye, and with a somewhat homely bluntness of feature preventing him from being describable as handsome, or with at best a rough, hard, open-eyed sort of handsomeness that was as unconscious of itself as the beauty of a young animal.