wouldn't understand. You must remember, my dear, that out in New York I was in a position to know a great many queer characters—crooks, Molly. I was working among them."
"But, father, that night at our house you didn't know Mr. Pitt. He had to tell you his name."
"I didn't know him—then," said her father slowly, "but—but—" he paused—"but I made inquiries," he concluded with a rush, "and found out things."
He permitted himself a long, silent breath of relief. He saw his way now.
"Inquiries?" said Molly. "Why?"
"Why did you suspect him?"
A moment earlier, the question might have confused McEachern, but not now. He was equal to it. He took it in his stride.
"It's hard to say, my dear. A man who has had as much to do with crooks as I have recognizes them when he sees them."
"Did you think Mr. Pitt looked—looked like that?" Her voice was very small. There was a drawn, pinched expression on her face. She was paler than ever.
He could not divine her thoughts. He could not know what his words had done; how they had shown her in a flash what Jimmy was to her, and lighted her mind like a flame, revealing the secret hidden there. She knew now. The feeling of comrade-