A hand fell upon his shoulder. “Wake up there, you old crystal-gazer!” called a cheerful voice.
Clifford looked up. Smiling down on him was a cherubic face: a somewhat elderly cherub, to be sure, since where usually there is the adornment of divine curls there was the glaze of baldness.
“Sit down, Loveman, and join me in a drink.”
“I’m afraid of you, my boy,” answered the famous little lawyer. “You might put poison in my cup.”
“Why?”
“Because I lied to you—you see, I’m not waiting to be accused,” the other smiled affably. “I told you I didn’t know where Mary Regan was, and after that you followed me and I led you right to her. She telephoned me about your finding her. You sure caught me dead to rights.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do anything with you, Loveman,—though that was the second fib you told me about her.”
“Both gentleman’s lies—told for a lady’s sake,” amiably explained Loveman. “She didn’t want her whereabouts known. But now that you’ve found her, what’re you going to do?”
“I don’t know that I can do anything.” And then Clifford chanced a shot. “You see, I learned that she is secretly engaged to Jack Morton.”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed the little man. “That is astounding! Well, well—I’ll have a look into that and see what’s to be done.”