“You think so, too,” he said, surprised.
“But there is no truth in it,” she said, frowning, angry to have had her thoughts divined. “Whatever you do, O’Leary, don’t say to any one what—what you believe. That mustn’t be talked about.”
“I sometimes wonder—” he said slowly, looking toward the corner studio.
“You are wrong,” she said impatiently, “absolutely wrong.”
He shrugged his shoulders unconvinced, influenced a little, too, by his jealousy. “I’m not so sure—anyhow, Inga, what’s to come of it? We can’t go on forever like this. If he won’t turn it over to the police, sooner or later they’ll get him—that’s certain.”
“It’s not going to last,” she said decidedly. “He keeps talking about the twentieth all the time. I have an idea that something is bound to happen then. I think this was a last desperate attempt on her part.”
“The twentieth, that’s day after to-morrow,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess we can hold the fort for two nights.”
As he was going she stopped him.
“Mind,” she said anxiously; “be careful what you say. Think all you wish, but don’t get the others talking. It’s not their affair and—it might do harm.”