“They don’t feel at all,” admitted Dorothy wearily. “Just now I don’t believe there is a bit of sensation in any part of me, Tavia.”
“Poor little Doro!” said Tavia gently. “Having a pretty hard time of it, aren’t you, honey? But of course you don’t believe a word that little toad told you?”
Dorothy was silent and Tavia looked at her sharply.
“You don’t, do you?” she repeated, with increased emphasis.
“Oh, I am trying hard not to, Tavia,” cried Dorothy desperately. “But there—there is the circumstantial evidence.”
“Circumstantial evidence—pah!” cried Tavia vehemently. “Any real criminal lawyer will tell you it isn’t worth powder to blow it up with. Proof, that’s the thing! And what proof have you? Not a bit. Only the word of that slimy little toad—who, by the way, will bear considerable watching, if you will listen to me,” she added significantly.
“But Jack Popella didn’t run away and Joe did!” Dorothy pointed out to her miserably.
“Oh-ho, so that’s what’s worrying you! Well, I wouldn’t let it, if I were you. Don’t you know that the smartest criminals believe that the safest place in the world for them is right in the vicinity of their crime?”
“Good gracious, Tavia, I wish you wouldn’t speak of criminals so much,” interrupted Dorothy unhappily. “It makes me feel uncomfortable.”
Tavia wanted to laugh but, after a glance at Dorothy’s face, forbore. There were times when the careless Tavia could be very tactful, especially with the people she loved.