“Say, Steve,” Monty cried, a light breaking in on him, “you’re sweet on her.”
“It isn’t possible, it isn’t even probable,” said Denby, taking no notice of his suggestion.
“But the same idea occurred to you as did to me,” Monty persisted.
“I know,” Denby admitted reluctantly. “I began to be suspicious when she wanted to get hold of the pouch. You saw how mighty interested she was in it?”
“That’s what startled me so,” Monty told him. “But how could she know?”
“They’ve had a tip,” Denby said, with an air of certainty, “and if she’s one of ’em, she knows where the necklace was. Wouldn’t it be just my rotten luck to have that girl, of all girls I’ve ever known, mixed up in this?”
“Old man,” Monty said solemnly, “you are in love with her.”
Denby looked toward the stairway by which he had seen her go.
“I know I am,” he groaned.
“Oughtn’t we to find out whether she’s the one who’s after you or not?” Monty suggested with sound good sense.