She sank back into her chair, and her hands relaxed.
"What makes you think I lent Andy my jewels?"
Her voice was colorless, but Vance understood the question. It was the end of her deceptions. The pause which followed was an amnesty—recognized as such by both. The next spoken words would be the truth.
"Andy had to have them," she said, "or Benson would have put him in jail." One read in her words a strange, self-sacrificing affection for the worthless Pfyfe. "And if Benson hadn't done it, and had merely refused to honor the check, his father-in-law would have done it. . . . Andy is so careless, so unthinking. He does things without weighing the consequences: I am all the time having to hold him down. . . . But this thing has taught him a lesson—I'm sure of it."
I felt that if anything in the world could teach Pfyfe a lesson, it was the blind loyalty of this woman.
"Do you know what he quarrelled about with Mr. Benson in his office last Wednesday?" asked Vance.
"That was all my fault," she explained, with a sigh. "It was getting very near to the time when the note was due, and I knew Andy didn't have all the money. So I asked him to go to Benson and offer him what he had, and see if he couldn't get my jewels back. . . . But he was refused,—I thought he would be."
Vance looked at her for a while sympathetically.
"I don't want to worry you any more than I can help," he said; "but won't you tell me the real cause of your anger against Benson a moment ago?"
