"It isn't fair to confuse me with compliments. Pardon a slight digression: I am interested to know what became of Mallison."
"I don't know," Morphew admitted, louring. "But I will before long . . ."
He gave a minute to savage brooding. "If that boy had only had sense enough to trust me . . . But he got panicky for fear we'd fall down trying to alibi him, and blew without so much as good night."
"And you have not see him since?"
"Fat chance. He knows enough to steer clear of me after jumping the bail I put up for him."
"Still, one is hardly convinced that Mallison is the simple innocent you make him out to be."
"I suppose"—Morphew's manner was irritating by intention—"what you want me to believe is you don't remember owning up you done that job yourself."
"Ah!" Light from yet another angle promised now to illuminate the darker recesses of Liane's duplicity. "You have been talking with Mademoiselle Delorme—"
"With both of you."
"Pardon?"