"But what for?" I demanded with proper indignation.
"I told him I was going to follow Sandro," said Peaches, as if the explanation was the most obvious thing possible and she were just a trifle impatient of my stupidity.
"Are you crazy?" I cried. "Follow him—follow that thief—that—that scoundrel? Aren't the police following him? Isn't that following enough?"
"That's just why," she announced. "Wherever he is—wherever he goes, I am going too. After last night I can't do anything else. And if it's to jail—all right, I'll go to jail. But I won't stay away from him, and I will find him if the secret-service can't, and I hope most heartily they will make a flivver of it. And I'll never leave him again—believe me!"
I was obliged to believe her. I had, indeed, only to look at her in order to do so. And as I looked, a gleam of human intelligence broke into my brain.
"Peaches," I said solemnly, "did you tell on Markheim?"
"Of course not!" she said, flushing hotly. "He—wasn't himself; I realize that now."
"So you just told your father that you are through with Markheim and are in love with the duke?"
She nodded dumbly.
"No wonder he locked you up!" I gasped, falling back on the pillows.