“No, thanks. By the way, they are not from Buenos Ayres, I suppose?”
Mollie, cigarette in hand, stared, round-eyed, and:
“Oh, my dear Miss Halley!” she cried, “what an idea! Such a funny thing to suggest.”
Margaret smiled coolly.
“Poor Sir Lucien used to smoke cigarettes of that kind,” she explained, “and I thought perhaps you smoked them, too.”
Mollie shook her head and lighted the cigarette.
“He gave me one once, and it made me feel quite sick,” she declared.
Margaret glanced at the speaker, and knew immediately that Mollie had determined to deny all knowledge of the drug coterie. Because there is no problem of psychology harder than that offered by a perverted mind, Margaret was misled in ascribing this secrecy to a desire to avoid becoming involved in a scandal. Therefore:
“Do you quite realize, Miss Gretna,” she said quietly, “that every hour wasted now in tracing Rita may mean, must mean, an hour of agony for her?”
“Oh, don’t! please don’t!” cried Mollie, clasping her hands. “I cannot bear to think of it.”