“My mistake. You’re terribly peevish. By the way—what was the row last night about Leila Mills?” Bud feigned deep interest in a cloisonné jar that stood on the table.
“Well, what was?” asked Bruce. “I might have known you had something up your sleeve.”
“Oh, the kid disappeared yesterday long enough to give her father heart failure. Mills called Maybelle to see if she was at our house; Maybelle called Connie, and Connie said you’d left a party at her house to chase the kidnappers. Of course I’m not asking any questions, but I do like to keep pace with the local news.”
“I’ll say you do!” Bruce grinned at him provokingly. “Did they catch the kidnappers?”
“Well, Connie called Maybelle later to say that Leila was all safe at home and in bed. But even Connie didn’t know where you found the erring lambkin.”
“You’ve called the wrong number,” Bruce said, stretching himself. “I didn’t find Miss Leila. When I left Connie’s I went to the club to shoot a little pool.”
“You certainly lie like a gentleman! Come on home with me to dinner; we’re going to have corn beef and cabbage tonight!”
“In other words, if you can’t make me talk you think Maybelle can!”
“You insult me! Get your hat and let’s skip!”
“No; I’m taking my nourishment right here today. Strange as it may seem—I’m working!”