“We’d reached the River Road by this time, and were well on our way to Lakedale, and I said, ‘Sue, we’ve talked enough nonsense for tonight; I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’re running low on gas, and when we get to Lakedale we’ll get some, turn around and head back for Rosemont. We can see whether the movies are out as we go through the village, and if they aren’t, you can come back to our house and wait for a minute or so until Mimi gets there. Then you can put the whole thing up to her and take your punishment like a lady when you find what a goose you’ve been. Is that a bargain?’ And she said, ‘All right, that’s a bargain.’
“We’d been driving pretty slowly, so that it was after nine when we got into Lakedale; there were two or three people ahead of us at the gas station—Saturday night, you know—and Sue was very thirsty, so we asked the man at the gas pump if he could get her some water, and he did. I noticed him particularly, because he had the reddest hair that I’ve ever seen on a human being. We were at the station about ten minutes, and I looked at my watch just as we left. It said twenty minutes past nine.”
“Was your watch correct, Mr. Bellamy?”
“Absolutely! I check it every day at the station.”
“How long a drive is it from Lakedale to Rosemont?”
“Under half an hour—it’s around nine miles.”
“And to Orchards from Lakedale?”
“It’s close to twelve—Orchards is about three miles north of Rosemont.”
“Quite so. Now will you be good enough to continue with your story?”
“We hardly talked at all on our way back to Rosemont. I remember that Sue asked whether we wouldn’t get there before the film was over, and I said, ‘Probably.’ But as a matter of fact, we didn’t. We got to Rosemont at about five minutes to ten, and the theatre was dark. There were no cars in front of it and the doors were locked. I said, ‘She’ll probably be at the house,’ and Sue said, ‘If she isn’t, I think that it will look decidedly queer to have me dropping in there at this time of night.’ I said, ‘There’ll be no one there to see you; Nellie’s gone home to her mother and Orsini went to New York at eight-fifteen.’
“It takes only three or four minutes from the theatre to the house, and just as we started to turn in at the gate Sue said, ‘You’re wrong; there’s a light in the garage.’ I looked up quickly, and there wasn’t a sign of a light. I laughed and said, ‘Don’t let things get on your nerves, Sue; I tell you that I saw him going to the train.’ And I helped her out of the car. There was a light in the hall, and as I opened the door I called ‘Mimi!’ No one answered, and then I remembered that I’d left it burning when I went out. I said, ‘Come in. She must be over at the Conroys’. I’ll call up and get her over.’ ”
“So far so good,” said the reporter contentedly. “If Mr. Stephen Bellamy isn’t telling the truth, he’s as fertile and resourceful a liar as has crossed my trail in these many moons. Do you feel better?”
“Better than best,” the redheaded girl assured him fervently. “Only I wish that Bellamy girl had died a long time ago.”
“Do you indeed?”
“Yes, I do indeed—about twenty years ago, before she got out of socks and hair ribbons and started in breaking men’s hearts. Elliot Farwell and Patrick Ives and Stephen Bellamy—even that little bus driver looked bewitched. Of course I ought to be sorry she’s dead—but truly she wasn’t good for very much, was she?”
“Not very much. The ones who are good for very much aren’t generally particularly heartbreaking.”
“You’d probably be as bad as any of them,” said the redheaded girl darkly, and relapsed into silence.
“I’m universally rated rather high on susceptibility,” admitted the reporter with modest pride. “Did you sleep better last night?”
“Not any better at all.”
“Look here, are you telling me that after reducing me to a state of apprehension that resulted in my spending six dollars and thirty-five cents, and two hours and twenty minutes of invaluable time in a hired flivver in order to cure you of insomnia, you went back to that gas log of yours and worked half the night and had it again? Didn’t you solemnly swear—”
“I’m not ever solemn when I swear. I didn’t work after twelve. If you paid six thousand dollars for it, it was a tremendous bargain. It was the nicest ride I ever took. That was why I didn’t sleep.”
“Mollifying though mendacious,” said the reporter critically. “Are you by any chance a flirt?”
The redheaded girl eyed him thoughtfully. After quite a lengthy period of contemplation she seemed to arrive at a decision. “No,” she said gravely, “I’m not a flirt.”
“In that case,” said the reporter quite as gravely, “I’m going to get you some lunch. And if Sue Ives decides to confess to the entire newspaper fraternity that it really was she who did it, after all, I’m not going to be there—I’m going to be bringing your lunch back to you because you’re not a flirt. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, thank you,” said the redheaded girl.
She sat staring after him with round bright eyes that she was finding increasingly difficult to keep open. What was it that she had said that first day—that day that seemed so many, many days ago? Something about a murder story and a love story being the most enthralling combination in the world? Well—The redheaded girl looked around her guiltily, wondering if she looked as pink as she felt. It was frightful to be
