“Who is she?” asked Brookes, with a sudden keen interest.
The frown deepened on Greenaway’s face and his voice fell lower as he answered: “Her name is May Osgood, and she is an actress,” he said, slowly. “I have loved her for some time—I can’t seem to get over it.”
That there was a reason why he should get over it was very apparent by his words, but Reginald Brookes was too cultured to dream of asking his secret.
“Well, my little sweetheart is only seventeen,” he said gayly, “and, between you and I, she has not accepted me yet, so you see I have a double reason for wishing to be near her.”
As they parted at the L station, Greenaway spoke rather suddenly.
“I’ll turn my life insurance over to you if anything happens, Reg; but, by the way, what is your sweetheart’s name? I seem to have a feeling that I ought to know it.”
Reginald Brookes glanced at him in a little surprise.
“Her name is Marion Marlowe,” he said, very slowly, then, as Greenaway ran up the stairs, he looked after him curiously.
“He’s a funny chap,” he muttered, uneasily. “Now, why the deuce did he feel that he ought to know my little sweetheart’s name? Confound the fellow! He has no business with such feelings!”