“It’s up to you,” he retorted, a smile of satisfaction lighting up his face. He could see that he would be able to hold Amy’s warrant over her head whenever he chose. She was beaten.
“But what can I do?” she said piteously. “What can I do?”
“I’ll tell you,” he said less harshly, “you’re a good-looking girl; well, make use of your good looks—get around him, jolly him, get him stuck on you. Make him take you into his confidence. He’ll fall for it. The wisest guys are easy when you know the way.”
“Very well,” she said, brightening. It seemed to her that no better way could be devised than to convince Taylor he was wrong. “I will get around him; I will get his confidence. I’ll prove it to you, and I’ll save him.”
“But you don’t have to give him your confidence, remember,” Taylor warned her. “Don’t give him the least tip-off, understand. If you can get him out in the garden, I’ll take a chance he has the necklace on him. We’ll nail him there. And don’t forget,” he added significantly, “that I’ve got a little document here with your sister’s name on it. There’s somebody coming,” he whispered, and silently let himself out into the garden.
It was Denby who came in. “Hello,” he said, “not dancing, then?”
“Hello,” she said, in answer to his greeting. “I don’t like dancing in August.”
“I’m fortunate to find you alone,” he said. “You can’t imagine how delightful it is to see you again.”
Her manner was particularly charming, he thought, and it gave him a pang when a suspicion of its cause passed over his mind. There had been other women who had sought to wheedle from him secrets that other men desired to know, but they were other women—and this was Ethel Cartwright.
“You don’t look as though it is,” she said provocatively.