“Where’d you meet him?”
“Through a girl I knew at college.”
“What does he do for a living?”
She stood stiff and silent.
“Listen, Miss Shan,” I said. “Garthorne may be all right, but I’ve got to look him up. If he’s in the clear there’ll be no harm done. I want to know what you know about him.”
I got it, little by little. He was, or she thought he was, the youngest son of a prominent Richmond, Virginia, family, in disgrace just now because of some sort of boyish prank. He had come to San Francisco four months ago, to wait until his father’s anger cooled. Meanwhile his mother kept him in money, leaving him without the necessity of toiling during his exile. He had brought a letter of introduction from one of Lillian Shan’s schoolmates. Lillian Shan had, I gathered, a lot of liking for him.
“You’re going out with him tonight?” I asked when I had got this.
“Yes.”
“In his car or yours?”
She frowned, but she answered my question.
“In his. We are going to drive down to Half Moon for dinner.”
“I’ll need a key, then, because I am coming back here after you have gone.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m coming back here. I’ll ask you not to say anything about my more or less unworthy suspicions to him, but my honest opinion is that he’s