“She was a bit busy THAT day,” admitted Jimmy uneasily.
“The truth!” cried Alfred again, as he rose and paced about excitedly. “Getting the truth out of Zoie is like going to a fire in the night. You think it's near, but you never get there. And when she begins by saying that she's going to tell you the 'REAL truth'”—he threw up his hands in despair—“well, then it's time to leave home.”
CHAPTER VI
There was another pause, then Alfred drew in his breath and bore down upon Jimmy with fresh vehemence. “The only time I get even a semblance of truth out of Zoie,” he cried, “is when I catch her red-handed.” Again he pounded the table and again Jimmy winced. “And even then,” he continued, “she colours it so with her affected innocence and her plea about just wishing to be a 'good fellow,' that she almost makes me doubt my own eyes. She is an artist,” he declared with a touch of enforced admiration. “There's no use talking; that woman is an artist.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Jimmy, for the want of anything better to say.
“I am going to leave her,” declared Alfred emphatically. “I am going away.”
A faint hope lit Jimmy's round childlike face. With Alfred away there would be no further investigation of the luncheon incident.
“That might be a good idea,” he said.
“It's THE idea,” said Alfred; “most of my business is in Detroit anyhow. I'm going to make that my headquarters and stay there.”