“That I am not at liberty to mention.”
“I’m all straight; honest, I am!” Max pleaded. “And whatever you think you’ve found against me, I don’t want my—the lady here who has been so good to me, to be drawn into it. I can’t have her troubled.”
A slight change softened the inquisitor’s face. “I think we won’t need to annoy her. Perhaps you are more anxious yourself than is necessary.” With this he left Max to a long evening of distress.
Mrs. Schmitz was dining out that night, and he fidgeted for hours, wondering what the strange grilling could portend. But she was so late in returning that he concluded he must not disturb her, and went to bed in a ferment of excitement and bafflement.
With the dark his worries loomed larger. Could it be possible that at some place where he had worked things were missing, and at this late day they were suspecting him? Wild visions of prosecution, conviction on circumstantial evidence, and jail filled Max with terror, and when delayed sleep finally came, they persisted in troubled dreams.
The morning sun scattered his fears and a talk with Mrs. Schmitz wiped them out; though when the ringing of the doorbell interrupted them, her parting remark lodged a new idea, not a fear but an anxiety.
“Don’t you be troubling about stealings you never did, nor police, nor things like that. Some one iss hunting you; it will be your father!”
It was Billy coming with a cheerful message, which he delivered without the ceremony of other greetings.
“Max, old boy, you’re it, all righty. I was over to see May Nell last night. Mr. Smith was there, and I told him about what you did the other day—”