Ashton-Kirk, during
dinner, had told him those regarding the visit of Edyth Vale the day
before.
"Pen, you know I don't usually do this," the investigator had informed
him. "But as you know so much already, and your feelings in the matter
being what they are, I think it best that you should know more."
And now Pendleton, as he rolled and consumed cigarette after
cigarette, went over the facts as they had been laid before him.
"And Morris," said he to himself, as he reached the end of his
friend's recital; "now what sort of a mess has Allan Morris got
himself into? And after he had got into it, why in heaven's name
didn't he keep quiet about it? What good could come from Edyth's
knowing it?"
Then the fact that Morris had apparently tried to keep his secret from
Miss Vale presented itself. But Pendleton dismissed it with contempt.
"Tried!" he said to himself. "Of course; but how? By marching up and
down the floor. By a great parade of tragic despair; by sighs and the
wringing of his hands. I've always suspected Morris of being a bit
theatrical--and now I am sure of it."
He roused himself for a moment, lighted a fresh cigarette and settled
back once more.
"I'm not Kirk by any means," he reflected, "and this sort of thing is
altogether out of my line.
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