“I think with Andy—you ought to ‘git away,’” and Jack smiled in imitating the earnest youngster.
“And make matters look as if I were more deeply involved than I really am? Now, Jack, dear, that is not like you.”
“No matter what you make matters look like, so long as you don’t make them look like themselves,” replied the boy. “That’s my brand of logic in a case like this. Don’t you see, sis, you may throw them off the track, and by getting a chance to talk with you, they are bound to find out something, or lose their badges.”
Cora’s face was bent in the roses that stood on the serving table. “But what could I do?” she asked, this time with less decision.
“Anything. Just take a run to—the beach—or anywhere. Leave me to see the officers.”
The rapid tooting of horn of the Flyaway interrupted them.
“My!” exclaimed Cora, “more early morning callers? There’s Bess!”
And, true enough, there was Bess, guiding her car up the drive, her veil flying in the breeze, and her cheeks like the very roses that outlined the path.
“Why the where-for-ness?” demanded Jack. “I am startled—collapsed—I might say, by the suddenness of this—pleasure——”
“Now, Jack,” and Bess had alighted from her car, “you are not to make jokes, we haven’t time. I am almost dead from hurrying. Mother decided, about midnight last night, that we should go to——”