“That’s probably what he will do,” he answered. “And in that case the mystery—if there is one—will die with him.”
“It’s a pity,” said the Little Captain thoughtfully. “I wish we could do something to help him.”
“Well,” said Allen, turning to her with a queer little smile on his lips, “it’s just like you to wish that. But if I were you I wouldn’t pity the old codger too much. I reckon he’s been a pretty hard man in his day.”
Allen’s lips tightened, and again Betty thought that there was something more behind his words than he was free to tell her. She saw also that the matter of this queer old man and his will had taken a great hold upon him. There surely must be some mystery. Allen was not one to let himself get wrought up about nothing.
“I like that red thing,” said Allen, suddenly, and Betty, looking at him, surprised, saw that he meant her dress.
She laughed and made an impudent little face at him.
“Thanks,” she said. “But it isn’t red. It’s American beauty.”
“Same thing,” said he, with masculine indifference to names. “It’s pretty anyway. I say, Betty,” after a pause, during which Betty’s gaze had been steadily averted from him, “am I forgiven?”
“For what?” she asked, knowing perfectly well what he meant.
“For staying away. You know I wouldn’t have done it if I could have helped it.”