Inscrutably he watched her. It was his habit to look hard at
attractive women. "Most people have," he admitted.
"Mr. Lindsay is our friend," she said. "We've just come from seeing
him."
The man to whom she was engaged had been put through so many flutters
of fear during the last twelve hours that a new one more or less did
not matter. But he was still not shock-proof. His fingers clutched a
little tighter the arm of the chair.
"W-what did he tell you?"
Beatrice looked into his eyes and read in them once more stark fear.
Again she had a feeling that there was something about the whole affair
she had not yet fathomed--some secret that Clay and Clarendon and
perhaps this captain of thugs knew.
She tried to read what he was hiding, groped in her mind for the key to
his terror. What could it be that he was afraid Clay had told her?
What was it they all knew except Lindsay's friends? And why, since
Clarendon was trembling lest it be discovered, should the Arizonan too
join the conspiracy of silence? At any rate she would not uncover her
hand.
"He told us several things," she said significantly. "You've got to
make open confession, Clary."
The ex-pugilist chewed his cigar and looked at her.
"What would he confess? That the man with him murdered Collins?"
"That's not true," said the girl quickly.
"So Lindsay's your friend, eh? Different here, Miss." Jerry pieced
together what the clubman had told him and what he had since learned
about her.
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