"Hot—?"
"Stolen—you know what I mean."
"Stolen? Jean, you didn't mean to accuse me of that."
Skepticism was ugly on her lovely face. "Fred, what's your angle? You step out of the darkness like some man from Mars in a strange suit, with no money, but a diamond that must be worth—"
"We'll learn what it's worth," I said. "Mars isn't inhabited, Jean. Don't you trust me? Have I done anything to cause you to distrust me?"
"Nothing," she said.
"Do you distrust all men, Jean?"
"No. Just the ones I've met. Oh, baby, and I thought you were a farmer." She was crushing out her cigarette. "You haven't a place to stay, but I've got a guest house, and you'll stay there, tonight. You aren't stepping back into the darkness, tonight, Fred Werig. You, I want to know about."
The words held a threat, but not her meaning, I was sure. And what better way to orient myself than in the home of a friend?