"Terry Hollis."
She could see him start. She could also see that he endeavored to conceal it. And she did not know whether she liked or disliked that quick start and flush. There was something either of guilt or of surprise remarkably strong in it. He rose from his chair, leaving the blueprint fluttering in the hands of his companion alone.
"I am Vance Cornish," he told her. She could feel his eyes prying at her as though he were trying to get at her more accurately. "What's Hollis been up to now?"
He turned and explained carelessly to his companion: "That's the young scapegrace I told you about, Waters. Been raising Cain again, I suppose." He faced the girl again.
"A good deal of it," she answered. "Yes, he's been making quite a bit of trouble."
"I'm sorry for that, really," said Vance. "But we are not responsible for him."
"I suppose you ain't," said Kate Pollard slowly. "But I'd like to talk to the lady of the house."
"Very sorry," and again he looked in his sharp way—like a fox, she thought—and then glanced away as though there were no interest in her or her topic. "Very sorry, but my sister is in—er—critically declining health. I'm afraid she cannot see you."
This repulse made Kate thoughtful. She was not used to such bluff talk from men, however smooth or rough the exterior might be. And under the quiet of Vance she sensed an opposition like a stone wall.
"I guess you ain't a friend of Terry's?"