“Why, certainly.”
“I guess not,” said Walsh; “she’s home—hasn’t been out of town.”
“Wayne didn’t know it; he thought they both went.”
“They didn’t; I’m quite positive. Very likely Wayne didn’t know. They may have intended going together and then something happened and Mrs. Craighill stayed at home.”
“I didn’t know you were so thick with the family. One might think you and Mrs. Craighill were on telephonic terms of intimacy.”
“No; hardly that. I haven’t heard from her but I know she’s in town. My information may be private and exclusive; I guess most likely it is.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“It doesn’t leave us anywhere; it just brings us to the starting point!”
It was hot in the glass box and Wingfield fanned himself with his hat. Since the night of Mrs. Blair’s reception, at which he and Walsh had spoken of Wayne with a common understanding and sympathy, Walsh had been much in his thoughts. Wingfield was a student of character and it pleased him to think that in this grim, bald old fellow he had discovered a type. Walsh’s traits were of a sort to appeal to him and now that he was learning that Walsh gathered information through secret and mysterious channels, his liking warmed to admiration. It was precisely this sort of thing that Wingfield liked to do himself. He took off his ulster and drew his chair closer.
“Do you mean——”