CHAPTER XII“You can’t quit,” said Mr. Fernandez. “No. You’ve got a lot to go through with before you’ve finished.”
“All right. Get the police, and start it.”
Mr. Fernandez was silent, sitting on the edge of the desk, one ankle on his knee, an intent look on his face. What’s he thinking about? Miss Peterson wondered. How much does he know? And how much is just improvising? He didn’t know this lad was Harold Cartaret. It was a shot in the dark, but it turned out to be a bull’s-eye. And now he’s going to take advantage of it in some way.
She looked at Harold Cartaret, slouched in his chair, his legs stretched out before him, and she had a sudden impulse to warn him. But Mr. Fernandez was speaking.
“Believe me,” he said, “I’d have sent for the police without bothering to give you any notic
