me to forget for a minute," I mumbled,
earnestly peeling a plum, so that she might have time to dispose of
those tears without absorbing them. I was more certain than ever that
here was a "story" in the broken connection between Joyce Arnold and
Robert Lorillard: that if he were really leaving home it was for a
reason which concerned _her_.

It wasn't all curiosity which made me rack my brain with mental
questions. It was partly old admiration for Robert and new affection for
his late secretary. "Why should he want to get rid of such a girl?" I
asked myself, as at last I ate the plum.

The fruit was more easily swallowed than the idea that he hadn't
_wanted_ Joyce Arnold to go on working for him. It wouldn't be human for
man or woman--especially man--_not_ to want her. But--well--I tried to
put the thought aside for the moment, in order to wrestle with it when
those eyes of hers could no longer read my mind.

I turned the subject to Opal Fawcett.

"Could you leave Miss Fawcett at once, and come to me?" I asked. "Would
she be vexed? Or would you rather stay with her over Sunday?"

"I could come this afternoon," Joyce said. "I'd be glad to. And I don't
think Opal would mind. She wanted me at first. But--but----Well, I'm
beginning to bore her now; or anyhow, we're getting on each other's
nerves."

This reply, and the embarrassed look on Joyce's face, set me going upon
a new track. Was Opal Fawcett in the "story" which my imagination had
begun to write around Miss Arnold and Robert Lorillard? If so, what
could be her part in it?

I found no satisfactory answer. Years ago, when she was on the stage and
acting with Lorillard, Opal had perhaps been in love with him, like
hundreds of other women. But since then he'd married, and fought in the
war, and later had led the life of a hermit, while she pursued her
successful "career" in town. It was unlikely that they had seen much of
each other, even if their old, slight acquaintance had been kept up at
all. Still, Opal might have been curious about Lorillard and the "simple
life." She might have welcomed Joyce for the sake of what she could tell
of him, and Joyce might have rebelled when she saw what Opal wanted from
her.

I thanked my own wits for giving me this "tip." Without it, I mightn't
have resisted the strong temptation to proceed with a little dextrous
"pumping" on my own--just a word wedged into some chink in the armour
now and then, to find out if poor Joyce h