“Don’t be scared to tell me. I just don’t want Marston to be in bad shape for the trip.”
“He wasn’t, sir. He’d been drinking, but he wasn’t drunk.”
“Thanks. That’s all.”
I wondered why George William had lied about being in bed early. It was a senseless thing to do. Not that I connected him with the fire at all, of course. But I was just curious. He went around with a chip balanced precariously on his shoulder all the time, that was sure, and seemed to crave no company of any kind whatever. The only reason he lived with Bailey at all, I presume, was to save money.
It worried me a little, taking it by and large. Finally, as we reached our palatial suite of two rooms and connecting bath in the most ornate hostelry in Cleveland, I put it up to Fernald. He knew the history of Marston and me.
“Why do you suppose he lied?” I asked him.
“Probably thought it was none of your business where he was last night,” Fernald grinned.
“In which assumption,” I admitted, “he would be entirely correct. But, the question once asked, there was no reason——”
“Except that he is as fond of you as a bull is of a red kimono,” Les reminded me. “Well, let’s step out and see the town.”