“I don’t know that he is,” she said, with a womanly inconsistence.
“But if you knew⸺” he persisted.
“If I knew . . .” she turned away from him and seemed to be peering into the face of the future. It was as though he was not there, but her words were like a caress in their soft modulation, like a song dying down the wind. “If I knew . . .”
“Where does he live?” he asked abruptly.
She mentioned a number on the East Side. “Why do you want to know?” she asked quickly, as though repenting that she had given him this information. He made a mental note of the number before answering.
“Well, I thought that if I could bring you proof that he had the books you might be willing to believe⸺”
She interrupted him with a note of alarm in her voice. “Oh, I’m sorry I told you where he lives—I shouldn’t have done that! You mustn’t go there, Mr. Morley! It would be terrible⸺”
“But why?” he asked. “Surely I cannot be hurt by a man with no hands. Even if he did find me⸺”
“It isn’t he, you know. It’s the gangsters he has around him. They would do anything—oh, you have no idea what a vicious crew they are. Why, if⸺”
“Well, don’t worry,” soothed Val, pleased and flattered that she should be alarmed over the question of his comparative safety, “Why, there is no reason under the sun⸺”
“Miss Pomeroy?” questioned an utterly respectful voice at his elbow. They both looked up, and until that moment they had not realized how completely absorbed they had been in one another. It had been as though they were in some private place, as though
