Molly’s eyes opened wide. The colour had gone from her face.
“Crooked, father?”
McEachern perceived that he had travelled very much too far, almost to disaster. He longed to denounce Jimmy, but he was gagged. If Molly were to ask the question that Jimmy had asked in the bedroom—that fatal, unanswerable question! The price was too great to pay.
He spoke cautiously, vaguely, feeling his way.
“I couldn’t explain to you, my dear—you wouldn’t understand. You must remember, my dear, that out in New York I was in a position to know a great many queer characters—crooks, Molly. I was working among them.”
“But, father, that night at our house you didn’t know Mr. Pitt. He had to tell you his name.”
“I didn’t know him—then,” said her father slowly; “but—but——” He paused. “But I made inquiries,” he concluded, with a rush, “and found out things.”
He permitted himself a long, silent breath of relief. He saw his way now.
“Inquiries?” said Molly. “Why?”
“Why?”