He looked as if his tongue had become riveted to his palate; his eyes seemed to bulge from his head, and his hand dropped from the table at his right.
“Of course you don’t go to Hell’s Kitchen, because you say you don’t,” grinned Rosy Larkins in the same squeaky tones.
“What are you driving at?” at last Claude made out to say.
“At just what I’ve said. I’m pretty plain. My voice isn’t as sweet as the notes of the oriole, but you understand my words all the same.”
“You certainly don’t mean to say that you’ve got a secret about my going to Hell’s Kitchen?”
“Now you’ve hit it. You wasn’t there the night Mother Flintstone was helped out of this world?”
“I was not.”
“But I know better.”
“You do?”
“Yes; you were there, and Rosy Larkins holds the secret so far all alone.”