"You're dawg-goned whistlin'. Y'betcha, by jollies!" agreed the Runt,
immensely cheered by Whitford's confidence. "We been drug into this
an' we'll sure hop to it."

"When did you see Clay last? How did he come to be in that
gambling-house? Did he say anything to you about going there?" The
girl's questions tumbled over each other in her hurry.

"Well, ma'am, it must 'a' been about nine o'clock that Clay he left
last night. I recollect because--"

"It doesn't matter why. Where was he going?"

"To meet Mr. Bromfield at his club," said Kitty.

"Mr. Bromfield!" cried Beatrice, surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Tha's what Clay said," corroborated the husband. "Mr. Bromfield
invited him. We both noticed it because it seemed kinda funny, him and
Clay not bein'--"

"Johnnie," his wife reproved, mindful of the relationship between this
young woman and the clubman.

"Did he say which club?"

"Seems to me he didn't, not as I remember. How about that, Kitty?"

"No, I'm sure he didn't. He said he wouldn't be back early. So we