She went from the room still smiling at the deep knowledge she had of her Michael’s little ways.
Michael imbibed it gratefully.
“My wife’s a damned clever woman,” he exclaimed enthusiastically, as he trotted out obediently in her wake.
Directly he had gone Denby went quickly to the door and made sure it was closed tightly. “It was that girl, after all, Monty!” he said in a low, tense voice. “She tried to pry open the drawer with that paper-knife. You can see the marks. I found the knife on the floor, where she’d dropped it on hearing me at the door.”
Monty looked at him with sympathy in his eyes. “That’s pretty tough, old man,” he said softly.
“It’s hard to believe that she is the kind of woman to take advantage of our friendship to turn me over to the police,” he admitted. Then his face took on a harder, sterner look. “But it’s no use beating about the bush; that’s exactly what she did.”
“I’m sorry, mighty sorry,” Monty said, realizing as he had never done what this perfidy meant to his old friend.
“I don’t want to have to fight her,” Denby said. “The very idea seems unspeakable.”
“What can we do if you don’t?” Monty asked doubtfully.
“If she’ll only tell me who it is that sent her here—the man who’s after me—I’ll fight him, and leave her out of it.”