“Heard a little tale at the Hot Pot Club,” Boyd said. “How you refused to speak to Scoville last night, and so on. Like to hear about it.”
She said nothing for a while. Her face was again the innocent pink and cream mask of ingenuous beauty. Her clear eyes were wide and innocent. Although I thought I noticed the faintest shadow of something in them when she happened to glance again at Lewis — who, however, was paying almost no attention to her — I certainly should have been inclined to trust her implicitly. I was even a little annoyed at the attitude, almost flippant, which they had adopted. She had, of course, lied about the business of Scoville’s death; but I told myself that in similar circumstances I should have probably done the same. I couldn’t believe that this dainty little creatu
