“I should hope not! Why?”
“Oh, don’t be so supercilious. Sherman’s is decent if it is popular.”
“I know it. I’ve been there. It’s just a big, gay dance hall. No, I don’t number any of its regular patrons among my friends. Kimball Webb was not one, if that’s what you want to know.”
“That isn’t what I want to know. Don’t any of your crowd go there at times,—anybody who was at Webb’s dinner?”
“Why, Coe, I’d tell you if I could. I suppose every chap at that dinner has been inside of Sherman’s, but I doubt if many of them have been more than once or twice as a mere matter of curiosity. If that’s all you’re asking me, clear out, I’m busy.”
Coe was about to clear out, when Lulie Lloyd stopped him.
“I know somebody who goes to Sherman’s a lot,” she said; “he sometimes takes me there.”
“Thank you, Miss Lloyd,” Coe said, politely, “but I mean some one of Mr. Webb’s friends.”
“So do I,” said the girl, her colour rising and her expression a little defiant.
“Oh,” and Coley Coe began to see things, as in a glass darkly. “Some one who was at Mr. Webb’s dinner?”