"Perhaps," slowly puzzled out Maria Angelina, "perhaps the reason that she was not—not expert, as you say—was because her attention was just a little—wandering."
Johnny yawned. "Often happens." He struck a few chords. "Where's that little song of yours—the one you were going to teach me? I could do something with that at the next show at the club."
"If you will let me sit down, Signor——"
"I'm not crabbing the bench."
"But I wish the place in the center."
"What you 'fraid of, Ri-Ri?" Obligingly Johnny moved over. "Why, you have me tied hand and foot. I'm afraid to move a muscle for fear you'll tell me it isn't done—in Italy."
But Ri-Ri gave this an absent smile. For long, now, she had been leading up to this talk and she felt herself upon the brink of revelations. . . . Perhaps this Johnny Byrd knew where Barry Elder was. Perhaps they were friends. . . .
"In New York," she told him, "that Leila Grey was at the restaurant with a young man—with the Signor Barry Elder."
"Huh? Barry Elder?"
"Are you,"—she was proud of the splendid indifference of her voice,—"are you a friend of his?"