“No. I ran.”
“Had you already suspected that Mr. Emerson had murdered Mr. Rony?”
“Why I—” Gwenn was shocked. “I don’t suspect that now. Do I?”
“Certainly you do. You merely hadn’t put it so boldly. You may have got to honesty, Miss Sperling, but there is still sagacity. If I understand you, and you say I do, you think that Mr. Emerson killed Mr. Rony because he was philandering with Mrs. Emerson. I don’t believe it. I’ve heard some of Mr. Emerson’s broadcasts, and met him at your home, and I consider him incapable of an emotion so warm and direct and explosive. You said I can do nothing about Mr. Rony’s death. I think I can, and I intend to try, but if I find myself reduced to so desperate an assumption as that Mr. Emerson was driven to kill by jealousy of his wife, I’ll quit.”
“Then—” Gwenn was frowning at him. “Then what?”
“I don’t know. Yet.” Wolfe put his hands on the edge of his desk, pushed his chair back, and arose. “Are you going to drive back home tonight?”
“Yes. But—”
“Then you’d better get started. It’s late. Your newborn passion for honesty is admirable, but in that, as in everything, moderation is often best. It would have been honest to tell your father you were coming here; it would be honest to tell him where you have been when you get home; but if you do so he will think that you have helped me to discredit Mr. Kane’s statement, and that would be false. So a better honesty would be to lie and tell him you went to see a friend.”
“I did,” Gwenn declared. “You are a friend. I want to stay and talk.”
“Not tonight.” Wolfe was emphatic. “I’m expecting a caller. Some other time.” He added hastily, “By appointment, of course.”