"Well," said Fred cautiously, "why go back of that? We were willing not to."
"You've met any of her friends?"
Fred shook his head. "That, at least, has been spared us."
I steered the talk around so I could ask after a while, "Your father goes down to business now?"
"You bet not! We see to that."
"Then what does he do?"
"When he manages to break away from Shirley? Well, in spite of his youth, he keeps up with some of his old friends; he likes his rubbers of bridge, you know; so every other evening or so you'll find the young chap down at the club at his old place among the unrejuvenated."
"To-night, for instance?"
"Friday; let's see," Fred considered. "Yes; he'll be there to-night; why?"
Of course I didn't tell him and I was more careful with my next remarks which finally drew out the information that, on the nights when he played bridge, Shirley, his wife—Christina, that was—herself drove down with the chauffeur to bring him home.
That made one thing clear to me, which was that the ride which Winton Scofield must not
