My eye followed him as he backed away from me. There seemed something almost symbolic in that movement of his.
"I want that club-bag," he said, pointing to the satchel which stood half under the edge of the table-cloth.
"Why?" I asked. I tried to be calm, but all the while I had that odd sickening feeling, just under the corset-cover, which comes to people when they feel their first earthquake, when they learn for the first time that the one solid thing on which they had depended is no longer worthy of that dependence.
"You know why as well as I do," was his sullen-toned answer.
"Then you and that woman are working together!" I cried out at him, hoping against hope that he would be able to deny it.
"Well, what about you and this man here?" scoffed Bud. "Aren't you working with him?"
"Am I?" I demanded, swinging about on Wendy Washburn. His face was a little paler than usual, but outwardly he was quite calm. "Am I?" I repeated. But he declined to answer that question.
"Supposing the three of us sit down and talk this over," he quietly suggested.
