Time had had no place in the development of their friendship. He had been drawn to her with the same irresistible attraction which the North Pole has for the magnetic needle. No word of love had ever passed his lips, but his eyes—they had pleaded his suit more eloquently than any words.
Absorbed in her thoughts, Kitty was actually startled when the taxi stopped in front of “Rose Hill.”
“Won’t you come in?” she asked, as Wallace helped her out of the car.
“No, thanks, I haven’t time.” Wallace looked up at the fine old mansion and hesitated a moment. “I’ll try and get in to-night or to-morrow. Say, Kitty, why don’t you go to a hotel?”
“Do what?” Kitty’s astonishment was obvious.
“Close up your house,” with hurried emphasis. “You ought not to live there alone. What is Craige thinking of to let you do it?”
“But I am not alone,” she pointed out. “Oscar and Mandy are living with me now. Besides—” it was her turn to hesitate. “The police wish the house kept open.”
“They do, eh?” Wallace turned and scowled at the mansion. “Have you heard anything, Kitty—any new theories about your aunt’s death?”
She shook her head. “I only know those published in the newspapers,” she answered. “The police do not make a confidante of me. Won’t you change your mind, Leigh, and come into the house?”
“I really can’t.” Wallace walked with her up the terraced steps to the front door and laid an impatient hand on the old-fashioned bell-pull.