“Allen,” she said, “you’re worried about something else besides me, aren’t you?”
Allen started as though she had read his thoughts.
“You are a little witch, aren’t you?” he asked, lightly. “You can even tell what a fellow’s thinking.”
“But what is wrong?” persisted Betty. “Won’t you tell me, please?”
Betty was irresistible when she spoke that way—at least she was to Allen.
“I didn’t mean to trouble you with it,” he said, reluctantly. “Especially as I’m still not at liberty to go into details. But I am worried, Betty. You see, it’s my duty, as a lawyer, to see that justice is done whenever it is possible. And now I have reason to believe—to know—that a great injustice has been committed and I can’t see my way clear to righting the wrong.”
“Is it,” asked Betty, after a sympathetic silence, “anything to do with that old man’s will—the client who died?”
Allen nodded. Then he said suddenly, turning to her with his old cheerful smile: “But we’re not going to let shop talk spoil our fun, are we, little Betty? I’ll have to be going back on Monday.”
“Oh,” cried Betty, disappointed, “can’t you stay?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Allen, gravely. “Business is business, you know.”