"You must have talked about something."
"We did. He pointed out different people—"
"I thought so. Mr. Pawne—" Mr. Lowell called through the window. Mr. Pawne was scurrying across the patio, his patent-leather shoes glistening in the pale straw glow of the lamps.
"Come right up, Mr. Pawne," Mr. Lowell ordered crisply. He turned and faced Ken. "You are not to associate with anyone in Nolan's school. If he persists in talking to you about anything other than business, I shall have to send you elsewhere."
Mr. Pawne, thoroughly aware that something was wrong, entered. "What is it, Mr. Lowell?"
"I thought I told you not to let Mr. Gracey out of your sight while I was away."
"I didn't understand you to say exactly that."
"Exactly that? You didn't understand? But those were my words. And you permitted him to drive the Rolls-Royce?"
"I did, Mr. Lowell. He was bored."
"You permitted him to be bored?"
The old man's voice rose to a shrill peak. He glared at Mr. Pawne, who recoiled from his glance. Mr. Lowell placed an arm around Ken's shoulder. "I can see that no harm has come to you. And no harm will come to you in the future."
"I took good care of the car," said Ken apologetically.
"Of course you did. But I shouldn't have cared if you had wrecked it."
Mr. Pawne placed a finger-tip on his lips. "Mr. Lowell, sir," he began, "I'm sorry—"
