All at once Kennedy stopped abruptly.  We were close to the entrance, just where a smart little speedster of light blue lined with white was parked at the edge of the narrow sidewalk.  The sun, after a morning of uncertainty, had just struck through the haze, and it illuminated Marilyn’s face and hair most delightfully as we both turned, somewhat in surprise.

“I know you’ll never forgive me, Miss Loring,” Kennedy began, “but the fact is that just before you came out we stumbled into a new bit of evidence in the case and I believe that Jameson and I will have to hurry in to the laboratory.  Much as I would like to lunch with you, and perhaps chat some more during scene-taking this afternoon—­”

It seemed to me that her eyes widened a bit.  Certainly there was a perceptible change in her face.  It was interest, but it was also certainly more than that.  I felt that she would have liked to penetrate the mask of Kennedy’s expression, perhaps learn just what facts and theories rested in his mind.

“Is it—­” Suddenly she smiled, realizing that Kennedy would reveal only the little which suited his purpose.  “Is it something you can tell me?” she finished.

He shook his head.  His answer was tantalizing, his glance searching and without concealment.  “Only another detail concerning the chemical analysis of the poison.”

“I see!” If she knew of the ampulla the answer would have been intelligible to her.  As it was, her face betrayed nothing.  “I guess I’ll hurry on over alone, then,” she added.  She extended a hand to each of us.  Her grasp was warm and friendly and frank.  “So long, and—­and good luck, for Stella’s sake!”

“Hello, folks!”

The dancing bantering voice from behind us, with silvery cadence to its laughter, could belong to no one but Enid Faye.  I grasped that it was her car which Kennedy leaned upon.  I gasped a bit as I saw her directly at my side, her dainty chamois motoring coat brushing my sleeve, the sun which grew in strength every moment casting mottled shadows upon her face through the transparent brim of her bobbing hat, in mocking answer to the mirth in her eyes.

For an instant she gazed after the retreating Marilyn.

“Good-by, Marilyn!  Dear,” she called, mega-phoning her hands.

The other girl made no response.  Laughing, Enid slipped a hand under my arm, the firm pressure of her fingers thrilling me.  She addressed Kennedy, however.

“Do you want a ride in to the city, both of you?”

Kennedy brightened.  “That would be fine!  How far are you going?”

“The Burrage.  I have a luncheon engagement.  That’s Forty-fourth.”

“Can you drop us off at the university?”

“Surely!  Climb in.  It’s a tight fit, three in the seat, but fun.  And”—­facing me—­“I want Jamie between us, next to me!”

As we rolled out of the studio inclosure she leaned forward on the wheel to question Kennedy.