Olden tapped with his fingers impatiently on the table, for, as before, he had led his guest into the dining room, the only really habitable room in this strange Bachelor's Hall. "Where have you been this evening?"
"Calling on a young lady!"
Olden looked up sharply. "Miss Kittie?"
"No." Then, with a half mischievous desire to play up to the other's hungry interest in the case, he added, "A young lady Lawrence knows and admires. Miss Wolcott."
The bait drew even better than he expected. Olden leaned forward with his arms on the table and his chin on his crossed arms, and Lyon felt the blaze of interest behind the goggles. The air between them tingled with it as with an electric discharge.
"Lawrence admires her, does he?" he said, with a curious deliberation. "Particularly?"
"I think quite particularly."
"How do you know?"
"I merely guessed it, from a look I saw on his face once."
"Do people generally guess it?"