“I asked you often enough,” he declared.
“Will you go with me to Rockville at once?” Her face changed and she drew back from him. “No,” she said. “It is selfish of me to think of my own happiness now.”
“How about mine?” demanded Kent with warmth. “If you won't consider yourself, consider me.”
“I do.” She looked out of the window to conceal sudden blinding tears. There was a hint of hidden tragedy in her lovely face which went to Kent's heart.
“Sweetheart,” his voice was very tender, “is there nothing I can do for you?”
“Nothing,” she shook her head drearily. “This family must 'dree its weir.'”
Kent studied her in silence; that she was in deadly earnest he recognized, she was no hysterical fool or given to sentimental twaddle.
“You came to me on Wednesday to ask my aid in solving Jimmie Turnbull's death,” he said. “I have learned certain facts—”
Barbara sprang to her feet. “Wait,” she cautioned. “Let me close the door. Now, go on—” with her customary impetuosity she reseated herself.
“Before I do so, I must tell you, Babs, that I recognized the fraud you and Helen perpetrated at the coroner's inquest yesterday afternoon.”