dined with Miss Bolton last night alone? After dinner you went to her boudoir? That would be about nine?"
"Yes, yes. Mr. Ford came just after the coffee."
"Ah! And who is Mr. Ford?"
May Weston blushed abundantly. "We—he has been here a good deal," she stammered. "Oh, Dr. Fortune, it isn't his fault."
"Young or old, rich or poor—what is he?"
"Of course he's young. I suppose he's rich. His father makes engines or something in Leeds, and he is in the London office."
"Sounds solid," Reggie agreed. "And why does Mr. Ford call at nine p.m.?"
Miss Weston's blushes were renewed. "He has been very often," she said, and wrung her hands. "I shall have to tell, doctor, shan't I? Yes. He met Miss Bolton once at supper and then he used to come here."
"Ah! Good-looking fellow, is he?"
"Oh, yes. He is very big and handsome."
"And Miss Bolton liked him. Well, well." Reggie understood now why poor Birdie Bolton had been dreaming dreams of nights.
"Yes," said May Weston faintly. "Oh, it's a shame! But I must tell. She thought he came to see her, but"
"But it was really to see you. Now, let's get back to the coffee."
