"Yes; just beyond. It's a bit thick, don't you know! This chappie Quayle has been trapped in a lonely house, thinking he was going to see a pal in distress; and instead of the pal there pop out a whole squad of masked blighters with guns. I don't see how he's going to get out of it, myself; but I'll bet he does. He's a corker!"
If anybody could have pitied Aline more than she pitied herself, as she waded through the adventures of Mr. Quayle, it would have been Ashe Marson. He had writhed as he wrote the words and she writhed as she read them. The Honorable Freddie also writhed, but with tense excitement.
"What's the matter? Don't stop!" he cried as Aline's voice ceased.
"I'm getting hoarse, Freddie."
Freddie hesitated. The desire to remain on the trail with Gridley struggled with rudimentary politeness.
"How would it be—Would you mind if I just took a look at the rest of it myself? We could talk afterward, you know. I shan't be long."
"Of course! Do read if you want to. But do you really like this sort of thing, Freddie?"
"Me? Rather! Why—don't you?"
"I don't know. It seems a little—I don't know."
Freddie had become absorbed in his story. Aline did not attempt further analysis of her attitude toward Mr. Quayle; she relapsed into silence.