“Leave all this to me, Claire,” he said with something of his old brusqueness. “I’m right or I’m wrong. If I’m right——”
Again he broke off. And Claire saw the muscles of his clean-shaven jaws constrict. Somehow the sight left her with no desire to press him further.
“No, my dear,” he went on, with added gentleness, “you carry right on. This thing’ll be through in a few weeks now, one way or the other. All my own work is fixed. When the other’s cleared up, then ther’s only to close up my shanty at the coast and come right along in to wait for my folks—my directors. After that, we’ll beat it from Beacon. And my work at Washington and Ottawa ’ll help to hand us quite a swell honeymoon. Does that fix you? Will you——”
The girl nodded, and the man leant back again with an air of great content.
“That’s fixed sure,” he said. “You’ll just carry right on at your beloved Speedway.”
The girl shook her head.
“The time’s come for me to quit,” she said quietly.
Claire was smiling, but somehow her smile was unconvincing. McLagan was sitting bolt upright. His eyes had suddenly narrowed.
“Why?”